If at all possible
it seems that the burning bright florescent lights make this place look even dingier.
There are holes in the walls
along with fingerprints, smudges, and the unnamable on the walls.
Yellow water stains
spot the ceiling, crusted soap and dirt streak the faces of groaning machines.
This is where I sit
Having undistinguishable music assault my ears, waiting and waiting for the weekly laundry.
When I am done
I have my favorite sweatshirt against me, warm and fuzzy.
The only thing
I notice or even care about is the comforting smell of roses and violets
I forget
that I am in this dismal place that gobbles up coins like a chain smoker does cigarettes.
With a smile on my face
I fold; and then walk out that door with baskets of clean, fresh clothes leaving this place of filth.
 PsychWardPanda · Wed Nov 12, 2008 @ 12:36am · 0 Comments |
