Another Laundromat Poem
Thank you the readers who messaged me with Laundromat Stories. The Laundromat is one of those crazy places where some poems live.
Another Laundromat Poem
The laundromat is my second home
said Marie. I come here every other day.
Dirty and Clean. My working title.
Every poem will be another
article of clothing.
I just washed my sneaks.
Poem enough.
I never realized the ubiquity of laundromats in NYC....never lived there myself...have a son who lives there and I believe pays a laundry service, but the small spaces people live in there makes a laundromat a critical part of life. So spoiled am I....
I loved my East Village coin operated laundromat..... next door to the Russian and Turkish baths. I also loved the baths....before they modernized you could sweat in the Sauna which looked like a basement and pour cold water over yourself from old dented cans and take a nap in the nap room with beds covered in colorful quilts and then round it off with ice cold vodka from little shot glasses in the snack room. Then go back to the laundromat and pick up your clothes from the drier or a basket that the owner had kindly put them in. Now that's how to live...and I did..... for a while.