The dryer hums a hymn for the lost,
swallowing one red sock
and the copper taste of a winter cough.
The air is thick with the ghost of lavender
and the smell of a wet dog in a raincoat.
A stranger peels a hard-boiled egg
over a mountain of damp towels,
his knuckles white as bleached linen.
He has the patience of a dead fish
while the machine shakes like a shivering addict.
I found a button from a coat I never owned,
black as a blind eye,
nestled in the grey fur of the lint trap.