THE LAUNDROMAT
Going to the laundromat, at first glance, is a chore,
Though only in appearance for this task indeed hides more,
As is often the case with what appears to be mundane,
What meets the eye is only a small drop in pouring rain.
That small drop in the rain alone amounts not to a storm,
But add a few more million droplets and see the storm form.
Ironically, when caught in the cloudburst and soaking wet,
That were once apart those drops of water we soon forget.
About the laundromat and the great forest that it hides,
Regarding the symbolism that within it resides,
There is much to consider and, blessed that it is,
Laundry grants us the time to ponder upon the Grand Quiz.
That game we call Existence, that rat-race seemingly
Infinite — yet having a deadline in a reality.
Cleaning clothes is a process, albeit simplified —
Today machines prevent our skin from turning into Hyde —
No less does it present a mission that requires some thought,
As to which clothes need washing, and as to which clothes need not.
Through close evaluation and scrutiny of stains,
We solicit our concentration and therefore our brains,
By searching our minds for the origin of this brown spot,
We recall that day we spit out a soup that was too hot.
And when again we come across those yellow armpit marks,
Our memory floats back to hiking great national parks.
We choose to combine in one cycle what smells and what stinks;
We’re mindful not to mix whites with reds lest they become pinks.
Perusing through the garments within our laundry basket,
Feels eerily like peering into our pending casket.
And as the robot washes on and as on the drum rolls,
The rumble and the tumble make us gaze into our souls.
Have we accomplished anything worthwhile, left a trace,
Of more significance than this red blotch on the Earth’s face?
Those are the daunting questions that lavatories pose.
They do not only raise queries involving drapes and crows.
You may learn more about yourself and how you see the world,
Both concepts intertwine similarly to clothing whirled,
And swished and swirled around in the coffer you double lock,
And triple check to ensure it is clasped. The door you block.
Well that manner of checking twice and thrice is in itself,
Evidence of neurosis; how your psyche lacks health.
If ever there were one place you would not omit to close,
The door, it is in the laundromat; indeed one only goes,
Rarely to this location, making such an outing,
An event on its own and is hence not habit forming.
Therefore shutting the porthole is merely one step
In the affair after dosing detergent, and the schlep
Of linen and soiled clothing from one spot to the next.
Slamming the door in this ordeal is the part that is best.
The odds of stopping short of this endeavour are so low,
The OCD you did not know you had might in fact show,
Who you are as a person. Review your rationale.
If you can detect the reason for this tic then you shall,
Get a better perspective on who indeed you are:
From the self-service laundromat the truth is never far.
Is what you fear the robbery of the unlatched machine?
That somebody might steal your shirts and socks before pristine
Your vintage garments have had the grand chance to become?
Or do you fear you will be left naked like some poor chum?
You will have the clothes on your back if indeed this happens,
And the thief too will have clothing so everybody wins!
Joking aside this angst of yours is revelatory,
Of your insecure, distrustful view of humanity.
Maybe you are a germaphobe and you absolutely
Need to be the one to remove your clothes from washer D
And be the one to transfer them to dryer number three
After all, cleanliness is the main reason for laundry.
You do not know that old lady with the two-wheeled suitcase
Who used a rolling travel bag to compensate for pace
Her frailty and her weakness appear to override her power
To carry her belongings, so how is she to shower?
And what about that tall young man with dirty finger nails,
Did he not err from the farm where he is to pack hay bales?
A germaphobe you might be for even thinking these thoughts,
But maybe you’re that type who wants to call out all the shots;
You like to control everything, need things a certain way,
Insist validating it all and giving your O.K.
Could it be that you are of those who value their wardrobe,
Who for a cashmere vest would venture across the globe?
Does fear of getting your clothing stolen then make you vain?
This begs the question whether you’ve ever experienced pain.
No matter who you are, who you turned out to be,
What you have learned about yourself by doing your laundry,
By reflecting on the meaning of this here and that there,
Your peace of mind relies not on the clothing that you wear.
When you fill up the washer and empty it again,
And glance upon the ceiling clock perched as high as Big Ben,
And realise the time is passing by both slow and fast,
And calculate how long ago you did your laundry last.
You notice the Sisyphean dimension of this chore,
And recall that of laundry days there will be many more,
That the bottomless pit defining the bleached laundry room,
Magnifies our futility and our impending doom.
The cycles never end,
Your back you’ll always bend,
To wash your cashmere friend,
The cycles never end.
The cycles seem to last,
Turn present into past,
Make time seem slow and fast,
The cycles seem to last.
The cycles never end,
The cycles seem to last,
The cycles seem to last,
Until the very end.
