On the Line

Fresh laundry lies in a heap next to my chair,

Warm from the dryer, still smelling of detergent.

I sink into the chair beside it,

and the blue light from my phone fills my hands,

a washing machine with no off switch,

refreshing, refreshing, refreshing

My thumb tracks the dented film,

tracing the spiderweb across the glass.

One video folds into another,

another into another,

until the minutes hang

like shirts forgotten on a line.

The room grows darker around me.

My book lies open, untouched.

A glass of water warms beside it.

Still, my thumb swipes.

I press the power button.

The screen goes dark beneath my hands.

Outside, the laundry catches the wind,

one sleeve lifting, then another,

sheets billowing against the evening air.

I look out.

The rain has silvered the window,

and the shadows from the moving streets,

slides across the wall.

No blue light spilling across the desk.

No buzzing from beneath my palm.

Just the soft click of the ceiling fan

and the pile of laundry waiting to be folded.

I hear the clothespins knock together.

Someone calls from a balcony below.

For a while,

nothing asks to be refreshed.