My own clothes can be seen through the small dark hole of washer number forty-six.
Spinning, spinning
to their wet restless end.
The intrigue and mysticism of the dents in the stainless steel on the front of number forty-six have captured my imagination.
They came from someone's angry foot.
Perhaps.
Do not hate the washing machine.
It is a peaceful creature.
It deserves a better place than Oakland.
Some small town where there's a horizon
and a long highway
and a gorgeous graying mistress
who's served coffee at the local truck stop for thirty-two years
to take care of it in it's old age.