Launderette in Paris

-
A girl in the sill
of a launderette,
her back to the street.
Creaseless is her blouse,
starched white
the paper on her knee.
She is scribbling
line after line
of tiny words.

Cellophane wrapped
round a faded bouquet of
mauve and burgundy.
Sepia its fragile leaves;
brittle its petals.

The girl is writing
feverishly
in the windowsill,
while the washing machines
are churning,
churning,
in their diurnal course.