Old Black Men
Old black men gather at the Laundromat
on Sunday afternoon,
a van brings some of them
others arrive alone
Stragglers from another time.
They carry their laundry in pillowcases
and old burlap sacks,
they count their quarters
set the machines in motion
roll their cigarettes
smoke with heads bent down
hands dangle between their knees.
On the rare occasion they speak
they are polite and quiet
their voices soft and sweet
like a melody from an old time hymn.
When I say good-afternoon
they smile shyly and nod.
Laundry done they neatly fold
faded shirts and pants
place each item back
in the pillowcases and burlap sacks.
When they leave I am a little sadder
wondering what these quiet men of dignity
do the rest of the week before
old black men gather at the Laundromat
on Sunday afternoon.