Laundromat
by Tony Magistrale


Rows of giant aluminum cylinders
spinning our clothes dry in sweeping arcs,

my socks and sweatshirts lumber in pedestrian clunkiness
alongside the butterflies set loose

by the college girl standing next to me, studying
the difference between black & white
& color—her fuchsia thongs & indigo camisoles,
peach brassieres all floating in humid mid-air
like the sale table at Victoria’s Secret.

I try to keep coolly nonchalant
as her ebullient underwear executes
perfect somersaults in perpetual motion,
a dozen cheerleaders trapped behind glass.






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