In Market Street Launderette
People sit and stare at the hubs
That continuously go round and round
As if they were crystal balls
Telling futures
A plate glass window
Displays them all to the world
Not like a car showroom
More like an exhibit
They come here to wash away their sorrows
To be cleansed of the world
Their world of endless similarity
Their clothes stained with life
With cheap beer, with cheap tea
With solitary love
A tumble dryer whirrs its way
And when all is done
It is as if nothing ever really happened
As if reborn, renewed, repeatedly
Denied and discarded
The blessing of the water-borne.
And there they gather. To return once again.
To contemplate the revolutions
Of predictable machines.
Launderettes. They sound so feminine.
Like places of youth and dance.
But instead passers-by walk on
Or glance guiltily at the customers
In Market Street Launderette


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