The washing whirls round
Seemingly endlessly;
In the air the constant sound
Of busy machinery.
Young lovers kiss while they wait;
Life-worn women
Fold their washing.
"Are they late"? they wonder
For the children from school,
The husbands from work.
An old woman smokes by a drier
Full of tumbling clothes,
While toddlers run and laugh
And one lone man packs a machine.
I wrote this poem quite a number of years ago. If you can find a launderette now I think that it will not be so busy as they all used to be.
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