Love at the Laundromat

You were sorting socks,

she was fighting a vending machine—

somehow spilling a tide of quarters

across the linoleum.

When you knelt to help,

your hands kept brushing

over loose change and lint,

and neither of you mentioned

how long it was taking

to gather up the coins.

Now, years later,

you still fold the towels wrong

(her way, not yours),

still find stray dimes

in the pockets of winter coats,

still laugh when the dryer eats a sock—

because love, it turns out,

was never about grand gestures,

just who shows up

to help you pick up the pieces

when life spills everywhere.