Small town laundromat Saturday morning:
me and the one sober resident
of a depopulated 300 resident town
who, undoubtedly, just got off work
an hour or so ago and is completing
one more unpleasant chore
so he can fall asleep
unencumbered by Protestant Guilt.
He looks as tired as I have felt.
He will feel the same way
tomorrow.
He carries in the bachelor's load--
two pairs of jeans (he's wearing his third pair)
four shirts, four stained once-white t-shirts,
socks, underwear. I caught him
looking amused
as I hung my wife's dress clothes
(she hates wrinkles) and I wonder
if he wonders
why she isn't doing laundry. Maybe
he wonders what's it's like
to have to figure out
who has more time to kill
sitting in an unair-conditioned laundromat
on a Saturday morning
as the humid summer weather
is settling in.