She hums to her knitting at the table near the window
Suds circling and the hum of dryers
It’s too bright and the doors open and close letting in the cold
He wears a hat
The next one does not and opens a book
There are hats and hats and hats against the cold
Clinking of coins down the shoot
A woman is talking sternly to herself
If you want a house or a car, you got to work for it
She works figures in a notebook with a pen and yellow highlighter
Knitter knits and hums quietly
The laundry lady talks to another lady about the schedule and the snow
The hatless man turns another page reading silently
I wonder what’s going on at the library
People coming in out from the cold to read a book or a magazine
To use the computers and there are few places left where people mingle
Outside their strata
The tall woman looks at me with relief but I’m not part of her set
Whatever she thinks
I nod to her as I did to all
$15 dollars of laundry – the sheets and towels and jeans because they
Don’t wash easily in my bucket with the socks and shirts and underwear
There’s no good place to hang them, but I do anyway
The heavy things
They are only laundromat dry
I saved a dollar by spreading them out over furniture for an hour to finish
When I got home
What gratitude I felt to enter my home
There were presents in the mailbox and I opened them and began to cry
It’s all so hard sometimes
Where did my life go?
I look at the beautiful wooden picks for my guitar
And a book about living the music
I don’t make many plans any more
I do each day what needs to be done
Run the vacuum, make some food, sing some songs
Write down some thoughts and more thoughts
Wash my clothes in a bucket and hang them over the baseboard heater to dry
Maybe next week, go to the library and see who walks in out of the cold
Who looks at me in relief, and who passes by unseeing
And wonder what the figures on the paper mean
And did the knitter finish the knitting
And did the hatless man finish the book
And do we all circle around each other warily or looking for shelter
And do we ever find anything at all
In libraries and laundromats
In life or in death
Is there ever an answer to the question
What is the song of the suds and coins
Or the turning of pages
Or of entering a new day
And can we sing it beautiful this time
