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Rhythm Of the Dryer Drums

Rhythm of the dryer drums, with funky beat,
beats out the funkiness of my sheets, I glance
around to see if anyone other than me might
have the urge to begin a song or tribal dance.

Dark brown eyes flare behind dreadlocks when
she realizes I've noticed her shuffling feet; I
nod towards the lad whose earrings clink as he
taps fingers along a folding table, and she grins.

Then another, perhaps a daughter, gets up in 
her face; can't hear what's said but recognize
the expression of adolescent embarrassment; the
woman turns away, the young man's out the door.

I wonder what we might've made by sharing our 
impulses:  thunder of the plains with Savannah rain 
lit by flashes of gothic lightning?  Maybe someday
such a storm will break this city's cloud cover.

If we've nothing else, there are moments like these,
and the hopes and the dreams they nourish; and
laundry room attendants mildly grateful when the
customers leave behind only minimal messes. 

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