At
five in the morning
he
sorts a tangle
of
wool, silk, polyester
into
piles on cracked cement.
Gauging
each armload,
the
man packs twin sections
of
the cleaning machine
to
perfect balance
then
leaves it to squelch
and
spin while he blows coats,
tops
pleated trousers.
Returning
to dump
solvent-limp
fabric
into
canvas baskets, he wheels
the
heaps to dryers.
Motors
drone and stray coins clang
within
the massive metal drums,
as
he toils at a spotting bench
with sweet and pungent fluids.
When
the tumbler timers click off
he
pulls out scorching clothes,
avoids
the bite of metal buttons.
Commanding
the press with pedal
and
handbar, he slams the head
to
flatten and crease each piece
amidst
billows of steam.
He
hangs and bags the garments,
brushes
by rows of plastic, ignoring
his
work and the sweat on his back
to
load the next batch.
Amy MacLennan