Why I Would Rather Go to the Laundromat Than Write Poems

Because the gears are already turning when I get there,

and all I need to bring are my own things.

Because the rules are few and good for everyone:

don’t overload, no sitting on the tables,

door locks automatically at ten p.m.

 

Because there are baskets, backpacks, duffels,

bulging pillowcases, and hampers on wheels

filled with tiny children’s socks turned inside out

and cotton tees and skinny jeans and double D cups

and drip-dry plaids and voluminous sheets

and towels that have seen better days. 

Because they all go in.

 

Because I can learn from an attendant, if I inquire,

the science of folding any item so it fits neatly

in a drawer, which I put into practice one Saturday

to produce several lovely, warm lozenges of shirts

that pleased me very much but not so much

the person at home whose shirts they were.

 

Because it opens before the grocery store

and parking is free. Because I get an extra dollar

of credit when I load a twenty on my card.

 

Because the young man hired to vacuum the filters

hums to himself over the lint while his caseworker 

reads a paperback in her chair by the wall under the TV.

 

Because the employees come in off-shift

to do their own laundry. Because the wash cycle 

takes the same number of minutes as it does to drive

to and from the farmstand to buy corn cucumbers

lettuce blueberries, leading to efficiency of a morning.

 

Because the way time suspends permits daydreaming,

and comparing notes about the tree that came down

in the storm and whose power is still out,

and the finishing of crossword puzzles: seven across,

six letters, starts with S, “the opposite of profane.”

 

Because the myth of the eternal return is not a myth,

not here. Because the cycle is always beginning,

always having been, always being begun.

 

About the Poem

As you can probably tell by the title, I had to trick myself into writing this poem. Paying too much attention to the political hellscape had robbed me of speech and almost convinced me to stop making the argument for beauty. But then I was rescued by my laundromat. Turns out you can just keep doing what you do every day and the words you need will find you.

About the Poet

Karen Donovan is the author of six books of poetry and prose. Her new book, Letters to Boulders, a collection of text and image, was just published by Wet Cement Press. She lives in Riverside.