Idle time moves slowly
set against cracked walls
and a generic floor
Those that live beneath
the dying dollar
have a rough routine
that never changes form
A woman in a chair
I see her eyes
no longer crystal
The inner lights
that used to shine
were forced to leave
She gazes at a dryer
seeing hope as an illusion
tangled in the spinning
shirts and sleeves
been there... now here... but then, I also spent many happy hours in an occasional Laundromat or two, also or too... it was my church once and only sanctuary. I really really like the observation you made of how it seems that ones
ReplyDelete"inner lights
that used to shine
were forced to leave"
fortunately light can be found over and over again even after our lights go out. This poem touched some of the deepest parts of me. Thanks, Patrick.
Beautiful!!! I need coffee before I can think of something more profound this early, but promise to come back.
ReplyDelete