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Haul It (Sunday Mornings) MAG
Haul it, lady.
Quarters in the slot
Sunday morning wash
The stink mingling.
Sabbath is a joke
The rich man’s day off
Here, we worship
Clean clothes.
Traffic stops outside
Bored gazes
Nothing to see here
Except poverty.
Wait on the floor
Don’t even complain
Chairs are a luxury
On a Sunday morning.
Clothes still wet
Almost time for lunch
Time to go home
Haul it, lady.
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On a morning drive into New York City, I was stuck in a traffic jam and noticed a self-service laundry facility. Every woman inside looked miserable, hauling their clothes from one machine to another. As I drove past the laundromat, I knew that I would never see those people again and that they weren't even aware that I had been watching them in the first place, but for a moment in time, we had been in the same place. I could only imagine what life was like for these women who worked tirelessly to provide clean clothes - something many of us often take for granted - for their families. After reading this poem, I hope that readers appreciate the sacrifices their loved ones make for them every day, even if they seem small.