My revolution begins here at the laundromat,
where the man on the phone,
is speaking robustly about his history of drug abuse
and the other guy standing in the shadows
breaks from his conversation long enough
to give a half-cocked cat call
as I sashay by, with a basket full of cupcake covered blankets.
This gives him pause.
My motherhood is now apparent–
pieces of my identity piled up all dirty, raw and real,
But there is too much beauty here for any type of judgment.
Beauty in the children laughing,
Beauty in how the parents leave and then come back,
calmed by cigarettes and starlight,
their old cars a refuge from the chaos within.
The too bright lights beat down on rows of contained floods,
and it strikes me:
Poverty paints on layers which can be stripped away,
given space to wait and come clean.
My revolution happens here,
where we strangers stand watch over the clothes
as they spin into a spiraling blur
and then fall back flat into the pieces of soft armor
in which we will take cover from this world,
arming ourselves with fashion,
cushioning ourselves with comfort,
and what else?
We share our humanity.
We share our filth.
We share this space.
The simple act of washing means we are going to keep going,
meeting head on another day,
another opportunity for change,
and wonder,
and heartbreak,
and desire.
My revolution happens when we do more to remember
the bold truth:
We have all felt loss, and love and hope,
and none of us know what this means.