Ndn8tive

This place where children run, scream & play
Where the air is as humid as a southern day
The constant turning of white spinning fans
As they cool the air the best they can
The fragrant smell of a summer’s rain
Or pine tree smell of a mountain terrain
I sit on a bench, as hard as a rock
And watch the hands of a slow moving clock
Listening to the sounds of a heavy thud
In the swirling waters of dirt and mud
As color change with each spinning view
I hate coming here, as many do
This place where people come to clean
And overload the small washing machines
The dryers are as cold as the morning air
The owner makes money and doesn’t care
Where mean and grumpy old looking farts
Just walk around and steal your cart
My wash still not done so I’ll take this crap
In this crazy place called the Laundromat

Bill

whitewave

Aw girl that was me sunday! Lol except its not old people...just crackheads tryin to steal lol and there's no fan in my laundrymat hehehe

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"To ignore injustice is to allow it"

Peace, Love, and many blessings,
White Wave

Migiziwomen

well thank god I have a laundry in my house now, but oh boy do I remember the days of snowy TV, and pushing my kid around in the big metal cart much to the dismay of the other patrons. I remember this one laundry mat that we went to we went at night so it was cooler and hardly a soul. we would put on our roller blades, me and my little girl, and we would have races around the mat. lol, poverty can really bring some good times. you write well, bringing to life memories lost. thank you

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