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Tonight, late, late, late, I get to writea lousy poem. Ha! That’s a pun, and here’s why: it is two-thirty in the morning. I’ve just returned from work. Tonight, as part of our jobs, HP and I did sixty loads of laundry. I have a strange job. Strange, but fulfilling. We were extremely efficient in that laundromat. We make a good team. Still, it was nearly midnight when we left school to pick up our daughters at our dear, wonderful friends’ house, and then we had to get them home, in bed, and apply special shampoo and combing techniques to our heads together in the bathroom. You’ve probably guessed why.

As a result, I’m poeming in the middle of the night.

I actually had an okay time tonight. About as okay as sixty loads of laundry possibly could be, I think. Even the shampooing was okay. We laughed when we realized that it was, hands’ down, the unsexiest thing we had ever done naked.  The combing part sucked. I haven’t had that done to my scalp since elementary school.

I tried to poem, but the laundrying was too hard. I’m just gonna describe the people in the laundromat, and go to bed.

Here:

Sixty Loads at the Nu-Wash

The tweaker girl, no, woman, it is hard to tell with the eye-makeup and scratched-voices, was so convincing that I was actually surprised when she failed to return with the buck fifty in quarters I lent her, or for her laundry. Two other couples, one an older pair with Alaska plates, she shook a tasselled scarf in his face and he chortled. There was a pair whose uninhabited voices and faces had no peculiarity, and so they fade and are forgotten. Mopping with lilac chemical, a choking smell, the laundress speaks little, but allows us free reign to take up all the cycles. She sees all kinds, she says. She finds about six socks a week. Few come back for them. Once a year, maybe. She keeps the place clean, it attracts the right kind of crowd.

the money is the dirtiest thing comes in here, she tells us.

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Tired. Bed. G’night, thanks for reading my sleepy laundry poem.

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