After breakfast, Frances and I march
three decks down to the laundrette,
which is what hope looks like on a cruise ship
when hope is a little wet.
Twelve machines stand at attention,
a dryer looms above each one,
its glass doors dark and non-committal,
waiting for something to be done.
Strangers cluster round the panels
arguing over blinking lights
as if the machines have any opinion
about anybody's whites.
I pretend to read a hefty novel.
Nobody looks at anyone.
The rules scream from the wall in red.
Screaming, it seems, for the fun.
USE AT YOUR OWN RISK. ONE MACHINE.
WIPE UP SPILLS. CLEAN THE LINT TRAY.
FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL SEE YOU
REMOVED FROM THE SHIP TODAY.
Jean tells Frances her husband
won't wear the same thing twice.
Frances looks at me. I look at the novel.
We think about the price.
Trevor loads colours with whites.
Nobody says anything to Trevor.
Trevor is not a man you say things to.
Trevor will be here forever.
Then Alice walks in and claims five machines
for her smalls. Everyone looks at Alice.
Alice looks at the middle distance
with the serenity of malice.
A voice hisses. A basket answers.
An iron slams like a door
on an argument that has no ending,
only a different floor.
Socks fly like evidence around the room.
One hits the rules poster square.
The rules poster has seen this before.
The rules poster is aware.
Detergent topples. Bleach follows.
Water appears from somewhere.
Nobody is claiming the water.
Nobody claims to care.
Feet stomp. Fists wave. Frances and I
conduct a dignified withdrawal
with our damp clothes and our dignity
and our backs against the wall.
One voice follows us out:
CAN'T YOU READ?
ONE MACHINE PER PERSON.
The rules poster nods. Agreed.