laundromat

in my laundromat folks don't talk much,
although yesterday a young woman asked
where I bought my extra-strength detergent,
the eco-friendly kind

washing machines line the narrow storefront
on the left, the driers on the right, folding
tables in between, and an irregular line of six
old plastic chairs

in my laundromat the AM radio plays
tunes of the sixties and seventies,
Motown and classic rock, my kind
of music

occasionally somebody sings along
but for the most part it's quiet, just
the swish and hum of the machines,
conducive to meditation

when it's crowded, we shepherd our laundry
carts through the crowded aisles, slowly,
careful not to bump into each other, quick
to apologize

that's my favorite part -- the slow and
stately dance, to Motown and classic
rock, weaving among the tables and
the bodies of the other washers