The laundromat is humming that anaesthetising old tune again. The washing machine says he’s sick of handling other peoples dirty laundry. The tumble dryer is going stir crazy that nobody appreciates his dry wit. I sprinkle some ‘Fresh Frangipani’ powder on the mundane. The concrete floor, washed with a grey gloss, is making me feel cold. Someone decided it was a good idea to paint the walls, wooden benches and table in luminescent neon lime. I hold back uncomplimentary comments, attempting to squeeze out all the bitterness in the previous sentence. I’d crack a joke, but it’ll come across a bit fruity. The tumble dryer lets out a gleeful ping.
Words come tumbling out -
Washing light colours with darks,
Spring scents of humour.
Original poem by © Darius the Mate
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Exploring mental and physical
2 thoughts on “The laundromat”
You should leave out the “i”. This is a ha-bun!
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Glad you enjoyed it Ron.