Laundry, late

he humps mesh laundry
bags at one (a.m.)
down buzzing halls
of gummed white paint
on breezeblock walls
his bare skin soft
in the flourescent pall
he tosses socks
into dented machines
then pulls them out
warm, pilled, and soft
in a way he’s totally not
but still is, if you spot
him half-dressed, like now.