Disco

It’s a real disco in a laundromat

at nine P.M. on Friday night

listening to the

bang knock screech

bang bump scratch

the rumble,

the machinery’s mumbo jumbo.

From time to time

I need to move my arms my head or whatever

I need to dance a little for the fluorescent tubes

on a ceiling

else they loose interest in me

and go off.

Here enters a random stranger

puts some dark underwear

together with white shirts

into a laundry machine

pours Persil violet double shot

slams the doors

pays with his contactless

and just as I start to think

a dirty poem I can make

out of his white shirts all of that,

he turns around and walks away.

I am left sitting on a plastic chair

listening to the humdrum shush shush

waiting for the ninety degrees washing program to end

waiting for the drying cycle to end

and take out the heat and the moist from a Friday night.