Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”

O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, vaginal,
******, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor

The cute old couple across the way
Gaze at the phone screen
Their expressions are joyful and gay
And life is as happy as it may seem

I can not help but wonder
What are they watching?
Could it be oh so somber?
Or in her wedding dress is she walking?

As she walks to load the washing device
He follows to make sure she will not fall
Because losing her is not worth the price
Of living alone at all

So watching the phone they resume
Until they can leave very soon.

I have known many ways
of birds
and unseen ghosts.
When I walk
it is always against the wind.
7 hours talking
to you in the dark
only to realize
you had left long ago,
tucked your longing
into the shadows.
Inventions of you
carved into walls,
quietly,
because that's the only way
I know how to love.
Girls I lay with
are only figments
of an imagination I write out of my pens.
Every moment spent
with you girl
was a light on the darkest night,
but now I must return to myself -
the way I was when my body was made.
Only Christ can know
the pain I'm in,
my girl she will raise her chin,
forget.
Meanwhile,
I,
conscious shadow seeker,
will be looking up
for reincarnation.

Sitting, thinking. Spun clean.
Used, time and again.
Exploited, yet reliable, your validity, supreme.

Minute hand, who made you travel faster than the ******* called the hourglass.
Telling faster what's feasible than with the abacus, the predecessor to all modern math.
And the shorter hand, whose stealth cannot be seen in person, what remains?
You use gentle remnants, and all that is spent, to strike dread into us creatures that wish to repent our wrongful gains.

But the fabrics of my habit may only see the secondhand and foamy soap, unknowingly handed down through families, cleansed over happenstance tragedies outgrown.

Tumbled dry.
These miserable floors support a newly clean, whirring, lullaby.

Buzzer sounds.
Locked from the inside, the doors are now closed.
My time is up.
Head home, and fold.

The dream of countless quarters flickers with florescent lights, all I need is myself in a quiet place, to finally take flight.

Fall into the void until comfortably null, softened to a point in which I am flawless, yet dull.

There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...

The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,

an ode to humility.

Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.

Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways

in spite.