Hub
Laundromat
She pays eight dollars like me
to have clean clothes.
Her silence like a British Guard
watching over the queen.
She ignores me, eats
two personal size pizzas from
the Amoco and examines her fake nails—
long, pink acrylic
shining like plastic diamonds.
Our thoughts are interrupted
by the old rumbling heater
and the dryers
running on separate settings.
She stares into
washer with a window
like a submarine
and waits for the day
she will be brave
enough to throw herself in.
Copyright © 2009 Kari Fransen