Think about this for a while
when your mind is idle –:
A laundromat for nudists.
I decided it was time to move my load to the next machine.
I also decided time to come forward and come clean,
Saying you can keep all of my coins as a token of my love.
I used all of what remained out of my cashed monthly cheque.
The purple coin purse had been emptied before I could even check
That the washing machine was just not at all now working.
sitting in a laundromat
watching people steal from the dryers
wondering why people just up and leave their stuff,
i shake my head and get back to the new zane novel
it is then at the finish of chapter ten,
i hear a scream that will add to all that haunt me
wherever your stuff is, doggonit, you stay with it
my light load is now done
i place the bookmark of heaven at the beginning of chapter eleven
i fold the light load up quickly and immediately exit
i go straight to Lowe's and get that stackable that is on sale
no more laundromat for me
dumb ish happens up in there no matter which one that you go to
at least it does when i go
yes, God was tryin' to tell me somethin',
or perhaps, i was tellin' myself somethin' without knowin'
home, from now on, will be the ONLY laundromat where i will be at
TV used to make laundromats feel exciting in their ads
For those of you who have never been, you may be fooled.
For those of us who have, we know better.
You do not wear high heels, a dress, and pearls.
You do not dance and sing around the dryers.
There are crying children everywhere, and angry mothers.
People are impolite and rude before they leave
Everyone is tired, and their backs are breaking.
The laundry mat is not a place to go to relax.
You cannot read there. The machines are too loud.
There is a change machine, but it is usually out of coins.
Especially on Saturday morning, when everyone is there.
You try to choose a time when no one is there.
Good luck, it cannot be done.
If you have to sell your children to buy your own washer, do it.
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 ass in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, v-g-nal,
penile, 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. Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy
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.”
In another lifetime, I was there
As sudsy clothes, a’jumble,
Went round and round until removed
In damp and twisted tumble.
Into the dryers they would go
While I just sat there, reading,
To help the time go by so boredom
Skulked away, receding.
When dry, the folded sheets and such
Into my cart were nestled
And schlepped to my apartment,
Up five flights I daily wrestled.
We moved within a year to where
Our building’s basement hosted
A bevy of machines to which
An elevator coasted.
Yet when I pass the laundromat
There’s surely no debating
That I don’t miss those days of carts
And inconvenient waiting.
sporting new hairdo
a bag of quarters
for the laundromat
posted on June 11, 2018
emotional laundromat
memories placed
within the
washing machine
of the wounded soul
cleansing of the
negative residue
that resides within
the broken heart
place negativity
within the dryer
shrinking emotional
scars
I enjoy watching
Clothes tumble in the dryer
At the laundromat;
It reminds me of sunset
And its swiftly changing hues.
Sixteen unique individuals
sit on sixteen washing machines.
As they make small-talk
they stare at sixteen dryers, all in a row
chugging and churning to the same hum.
I'm here do'in the wash,
I wonder where are you,
Been hearin' whispered tales,
Of how you've been untrue
Sure don't want to believe that,
Would ruin my life for sure,
If I should be so unlucky,
To find you're but a whore,
I have to wonder how
and why lately,
I get these kind of chores
Especially when I came upon
that hidden book in one of your drawers,
All about the current matrimonial laws,
If I could only launder,
Away the fear deep in my heart,
And rinse away the aching throb
Tearing me apart,
I guess I'd feel much better,
For then I wouldn't care,
And you would write me a letter,
About how you wouldn't dare,
To break my heart, split up this, our home,
For a life in turmoil, love a'searching,
Forever on the roam.
Thump, thump, thump
must be sneakers in the dryer.
Clunk, clunk, clunk
washers changing cycles.
Musaks in the laundromat
make it impossible to read that
novel which had you spellbound,
but you brought it and found
the metallic clattering kachung, kachung
of the change dispenser
(souding like winning slot machines)
is not music to read by.
Thump, clunk, kachung
Wet mops that are hung
to drip on the pop-splattered floor.
Running, yelling kids or
zonked-out junkies bid
for your attention.
Attention! Attention!
We're doing laundry in here,
this is not a reading room
with soap overflowing,
and the clothes still wet
after the dryer ate your last cent.
Thump, clunk, kachung.
Lets get finished with this chore
and get the _ _ _ _ out the door!
She precisely folded
the baby clothes and being
a long time laundromat
habitual, I recognized the signs.
Obsession at the laundromat level
is usually the last attempt
at order in a life without.
The two blackened puffy eyes
and the swollen lip were
not too subtle clues and
the bent nose and scar upon
the cheek told more of what
she was going home to.
She worked with such care,
such intense deliberation,
there, in the holy golden glow
of the afternoon sunlight,
an American Madonna, and
I wondered, after she left,
what I should have done, and
what I could possibly do.