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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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