Laundro

I didn’t notice the short bus pull up.  I was busy pushing quarters into the silver slot.  It takes twenty-seven for the big washer.  My goal is to finish the wash and dry in one act, one hour.

 Teacher and John have arrived inside the entrance.  Teacher exchanges pleasantries with Marianne as she folds clothes.  John stands in place, slightly weaving, as if the world was moving too fast and then suddenly stopped.  Teacher grabs a broom and starts sweeping the already clean floor.  He hands the broom to John, who moves it to-and-fro twice, pushing the imaginary pile of dust into the pickup. 

Kenny enters, full of bluster, speaking in a voice way too loud for the room. He engages Teacher and Marianne in a protracted and one-sided conversation about the events of his day; the condition of his truck, the fish fry at the VFW, and some relative that they might see at some point soon, but probably not. 

Marianne continues to fold clothes.  She is a youthful middle-aged woman, and it seems she is the reason Kenny and Teacher are here; old drones circling the honey.  John continues to sway, mouth slightly agape, while fiddling with his earphones.  I can’t see if his eyes are vacant or just simply have vacated this show.  

Kenny completes his monologue and exits, bow implied. Teacher and Marianne give a kind review of his performance, noting that this man “knows a lot.”

Teacher offers John the opportunity to run the vacuum cleaner.  He declines, preferring to watch a television show droning-on about buying the perfect home.  

My clothes are now dry and I join in the ritual of folding. 

Kenny departs with a practiced aplomb, soon followed by Teacher, and then John, trailing slightly behind, who appears to have completed the lesson. 

"Have a nice day, have a nice day, have a nice day.  You too, you too, you too.”

The laundromat quiets upon these exits. Marianne looks across the row of washers churning away and we make brief eye contact.  “Quite the show,” I comment, trying to stay in my neutral corner.  She smiles and slightly rolls her eyes, as she begins to fold another load of clothes.

A Brief Lesson

A Brief Lesson

My house was such
That I could stand at the sink
Wash a cup clean
And enjoy the view
Out the window,
To the bird feeders
And across the yard,
To the frosted garden and the forest beyond.

The birds and I had an arrangement:
I would feed them
And they would show themselves,
Feather and bill
So I could get a closer look
From the comfort of my kitchen vantage.
It was a unilateral accord:
I, the master of my domain
That of seed and suet
They, driven by the sirens call of feed
That offered sustenance and survival.

Winter, not caring, took as well as it gave.

Chickadees were cheer for me
As winter took from me as well
And I could find some comfort
In their incessant energy and lust for life.

The woodpeckers
Stiff tail-feathered
And hammer headed
Feed their furnaces with globs
Of suet
A suitable substitute for
Beetle grubs and dormant moths.

And the mourning doves
Shuffled and strutted across the ground
Now and then puffing their rosy breasts
A prelude to the more formal dance
They held each springtime here.

Swift of wing
But slow of foot,
They showed themselves to the hawk
Who had perched along the tree line.
Waiting unseen
Driven by the itch of instinct
It swooped down
Talons aimed deadly at the dove
Who had turned to harvest a seed,
The last it would ever taste.

There was a small thump and a shower of feathers, then
With powerful pumps of its muscular wings
The hawk lifted its prize
To dine al fresco
On some nearby perch in privacy.

By the time I had dropped my cup
This moment had passed,
Perhaps in a heartbeat
Or two.
There was nothing to be done,
Except for the heavy lifting,
Nothing to consider
But the moment
Between dove and hawk
And carry it with me
Throughout my days.

-P. Sanderson