Ironing


the warm, sweet steam rolls up into my nostrils.
like a drug, it hits; it's my cocaine.
I sense the approaching memories
flooding on the back of melancholy
carrying me away to 1961.
the scent of laundry powder residue in the denim
mixed with the heat of the iron
makes me dizzy with longing
for iced tea on the porch with Mama,
as she shells June peas for dinner.
the lush, green oaks outside the laundry room window
remind me it's"close," as Aunt Helen used to say.
hot and humid, out and in.
I lose myself in the process of ironing
eliminating the wrinkles of life.
I can almost hear The Secret Storm soap opera in the distance.
a snowy TV with rabbit ears pulling it in.
the zen of the heat, the quiet, the repetition,
the creaking of the ironing board-
an accomplishment for the week,
all in anticipation for the next week's shirts
and the welcome nostalgia
the process pulls in from a beautiful day in 1961.

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