Who knew a laundromat would do it to me?
As my underwear that I bought because
you told me you liked them tossed around
in the machine that I paid four dollars to start,
I couldn’t help but think about that phone call.
The octopuss underwear weren’t my first choice,
but they were yours. By the time I had already paid
eighteen dollars and had them shipped to my house
you wanted nothing to do with me anymore.
You ignored my texts so I didn’t even think about
calling. It’s been two months now and sometimes
I catch myself still waiting. Especially when I’m here,
in the laundromat where the happily married Gina
in her jean shorts and John in his hawaiian button-up
are shoveling their garments into the washer.
And two other girls whose names I haven’t made up
yet are sitting at the table in the corner giggling with
each other. And a mother tells her son to calm down
when he wins a bouncy ball from the arcade game
she so generously gave up a dollar for him to play.
And not-so-suddenly I realize I’m the only person
in this laundromat who is utterly alone. In the twenty-
six minutes it takes for Gina and John’s garments
to saturate and soak and sanitize, they have each other.
And I can hear the girls in the corner talking
about something I can’t quite make out, but they’re still
giggling. And now I can finally shed a tear over you--
when I realize that for the last twenty-six minutes
I have been thinking about how I said goodbye
to you, and all you said was “ok.”
As my underwear that I bought because
you told me you liked them tossed around
in the machine that I paid four dollars to start,
I couldn’t help but think about that phone call.
The octopuss underwear weren’t my first choice,
but they were yours. By the time I had already paid
eighteen dollars and had them shipped to my house
you wanted nothing to do with me anymore.
You ignored my texts so I didn’t even think about
calling. It’s been two months now and sometimes
I catch myself still waiting. Especially when I’m here,
in the laundromat where the happily married Gina
in her jean shorts and John in his hawaiian button-up
are shoveling their garments into the washer.
And two other girls whose names I haven’t made up
yet are sitting at the table in the corner giggling with
each other. And a mother tells her son to calm down
when he wins a bouncy ball from the arcade game
she so generously gave up a dollar for him to play.
And not-so-suddenly I realize I’m the only person
in this laundromat who is utterly alone. In the twenty-
six minutes it takes for Gina and John’s garments
to saturate and soak and sanitize, they have each other.
And I can hear the girls in the corner talking
about something I can’t quite make out, but they’re still
giggling. And now I can finally shed a tear over you--
when I realize that for the last twenty-six minutes
I have been thinking about how I said goodbye
to you, and all you said was “ok.”