laundry night

the washers and dryers,
the ones that work,
grind away with filthy clothes
and grey water
spilling into a
cast iron tub
from black hoses coated
in grey hair.
it's cold down
there. you need
the right amount
of change.
you need hours
of your life to get
these old
clothes clean.
you sit on a lawn
chair next to the caged
storage bins
full of bikes
and paint cans,
Christmas trees
already decorated
waiting for next year.
you drink
a beer, you flip through
a magazine, you
listen to the rattle
of coins and keys
that have fallen out
of your pockets,
now spinning in the hollow
of drums.