It’s 10 p.m. and I’m sitting at a blue plastic table, sipping a canned Coke. I’m surrounded by banks of whirring silver washing machines, and I’ve figured out that by sitting at this table, I can feel the blasts of cold air from the AC. It’s a nice counter to the heat radiating off all these dryers. This is the Wash Tub Coin Laundry, open 25 hours, according to a sign on the side of…
I wish I could write erotic poetry about laundry day like Erica Jong does: This is the dirty laundry poem— because we have traveled from town to town accumulating soiled linen & sweaty shirts & blue-jeans caked & clotted with our juice & teeshirts crumpled by our gloriously messy passion & underwear made stiff by all our joy. No, my laundry poetry would sound a little more like This shirt, perfectly clean has been kicked…
Laundry Day. A poorly planned one, at that, since my quarter count came up two short of what I’d need to wash and dry two full loads. But some creative searching in pants pockets and jewelry boxes and I had discovered not two but three quarters (one of which has a perfectly circular love-bead-sized hole in it; I’ve been hanging on to that thing for as long as I can remember and have been known…
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