Sat in the lonely Launderette,
way past bed time,
bet not one soul arrives
before my line of well washed linen is fried.
One old lady at the door complete with smalls.
I take a call on the mobile phone I barely use.
I lose again as she counts pounds and twenty p’s
into the machine.
She leans forward, light pleasantries
are exchanged, the weathers wayward way
briefly binds us together.
My best shirt waves a sleeve,
flirts with the seam of too tight trousers.
She scans The Daily Mail, forecast is bleak,
sheeting from the left coats my journey home.