In the middle of the night
When not a soul is stirring
I slip into the bright white lights
And hear washing machines whirling
Empty now, a space I spy
And bend down to my task
Notice in the corner of my eye
Clandestine shadow masks
A form of man who barely moves
And smells of sweat and hunger
No laundry does he now clean here
Only respite from rain and thunder
Arm wrapped into backpack strap
Yet not a sound he utters
Living from each desperate act
In this life now stuttered
A face of acne and scars and grime
And clothes that do not fit
A bike hides in the corner
Where a garbage can sits
He does no harm, and only sleeps
Refuge from outdoors
In this place of laundry soap
And the dull grey floors
I let him sleep as laundry dries
And sit and smoke and write
In a crash pad laundromat
In the middle of this night
©2019 James Takeo
The Black Lantern 