An Ode to Hand Dryers

The warmth of a hand dryer provides solace,

unheard of perhaps but slipping

into solitary quietude seems only possible

when staring at chipped, lack lustre white

paint with dirty green peeping through.

Pushing human life away,

repressing, mid eventful day

feet firmly planted in the ground,

linoleum sticking.

Sure, they’re clunky and awkward,

been visited many times before

but they have a way of making you

feel special.

You’re the only one in its mirrored globe

distorted yet perfectly reflected,

passers by (colleagues or strangers)

merge into the cubicle doors and paint

just linoleum screeching.

There’s relief in the warmth

four walls would find unbearable

warmth a grey t-shirt would reject.

No one waits for a dryer, if occupied

they just leave.

Relinquishing the minute of comfort

blown air can incase you within

like womb or wing.


And so, I conquer the solace

provided by the tin box.

Feet firmly planted, linoleum sticking

I sink into solitary quietude

releasing my worried soul into the

stale air.



Photographer: Monika Baechler

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