Haibun 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 meContinue reading “The laundromat”
Poetry, and other thoughts, by Darius the Mate
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