The Washing Machine Outside

At this hour, I can hear the neighbor's washing machine running. Someone must be washing what they'll wear tomorrow. The rhythm is regular and a little dull, and listening to it, my heart seems to steady. I did nothing today. I made dinner out of the side dishes left in the fridge and left the unwashed plates where they were. And still the day has ended, which is a strange thing. What needs doing is still off in the distance, but the night doesn't hurry me. The moment the machine stops, the quiet steps out of the room. That person is probably taking out the laundry to hang now. I turn off one light and look for a long time at the moonlight hung outside the window. A night where I needn't be hurt or touched by anything is beside me today. When tomorrow comes, I'll hear the washing machine again. Then I'll gather my clothes and put them in too. As if quietly rinsing away today's dust and the day's specks.