Cathedral of the second-hand hour,
your dryers turn like slow bright planets
and the light is the color of a waiting room
that has decided to forgive us.
Here the young man folds his one good shirt
with the seriousness of a flag.
Here the woman with the crossword
lends her pen and never asks for it.
Nobody is anybody here.
We are all just people with wet clothes
and forty minutes, praying quietly
to the god of the working machine.
Praise the coin slot. Praise the plastic chair.
Praise the sign that says BE KIND, MACHINES ARE OLD.
Praise the smell of heat and soap,
which is the smell of starting over
at a price a person can afford.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
