Poem: The Rinse Light

At three the washers own the room, round windows full of weather.

My coat goes under, comes back dark, goes under, comes back lighter.

Coins wait in a row like teeth. The phone keeps its face down.

Outside, the road has emptied itself of anyone asking where I have been.

I do not pray. I watch the rinse light turn.

One more minute. One more circle. One more ordinary mercy with a timer and a door.