#laundromat
You said
love should feel natural
which was unfortunate
because nature itself
is mostly catastrophe
with good lighting
Outside
March kept dissolving
into ***** water
The city wore its exhaustion
openly
like men smoking alone
outside hospitals
We lived above a laundromat
all night
the machines turned
washing strangers
through cycles
of heat and surrender
You slept badly
Every dream
returned you damaged
Meanwhile
I developed the talent
of making coffee quietly
which should qualify
as a minor religion
One morning
you stood by the window
wearing my sweater
the large gray one
with holes near the wrists
You looked temporary
like jazz
or governments
or those bookstores
that survive three rent increases too long
Down below
someone screamed in Russian
with astonishing commitment
A taxi almost hit a cyclist
The cyclist hit the taxi
Spring continued
without moral instruction
You asked:
“Do you think people ruin each other?”
I wanted to answer carefully
instead I said:
“Only the honest ones.”
For a while
neither of us moved
The kettle trembled softly
on the stove
like an old actor
waiting backstage
to die correctly
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 10:23 AM UTC
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
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC
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.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
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.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
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.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
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.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC