Everything is lilac and acrid,
men hover around the woman
in the window making con leches
and cheese toast. They talk
of weather and the plans
for dredging or for housing –
everyone who is here is also looking
for a way to be here. I am looking
at the diamond pattern on my sheets,
the young girl smacking the glass
where my clothes circle and press
against the front of the machine,
and I am grunting loudly
in the direction of the man beneath
the tracking of the industrial door
as he lights a cigarette and my load
dings and counts down from 30.