SUNDAY MORNING

by Emily Schulten

 

 

Everything is lilac and acrid,
men hover around the woman
in the window making con leches
and cheese toast. They talk
of weather and the plans
for dredging or for housing –
everyone who is here is also looking
for a way to be here. I am looking
at the diamond pattern on my sheets,
the young girl smacking the glass
where my clothes circle and press
against the front of the machine,
and I am grunting loudly
in the direction of the man beneath
the tracking of the industrial door
as he lights a cigarette and my load
dings and counts down from 30.
Every time, hefting the wet clothes
to the dryer is like moving that week
of my life into whatever space is not
being used – dropping grey lace
panties onto the floor where
the owner pretends not to notice them,
settling for the kind of clean that
carries the hint of Winstons
and grease. One of the plastic baskets
breaks and pinches my hand,
so full of what needs freshening.
At home, I’ll dress the bed and cover
my body and carry with me the smoker
and the men and the coffee
and the woman in the window
and the unattended child
into the next week, untethered
to anything except for what’s
already been, what will be imbedded
despite trying to wash it away.

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