We found the woman in the road,
ironing board waist-level
cutting the pavement in two.
Her eyes reflected our headlights
as she lifted a finger, tested for heat,
fell to the cuff of a blue pinstripe,
hummed as she finished the first sleeve,
nosing the iron under the collar.
Sensing my father's impatience,
my mother scolded, Let her finish.
Let her finish, you hear?
It's hard enough to press a shirt,
let alone in the middle of the night,
in the middle of the road, blinded
like a possum by headlights.
Put the car in park.
My father shut off the engine,
and we sat in sudden silence as the woman
steamed and smoothed, taking her time
with two tucks in the back, skirting
around buttons and snapping
the shirt at last, and the noise was like
a sail catching wind. When we saw her slip
over the curb and into nowhere,
board tucked under her arm,
the shirt lingered stark
against the darkness, and we smelled
starch and heat, heard hiss and shudder,
longed for warm sleeves, for crisp cotton
over stomach and under chin.
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4 comments:
Ug, the lining is uneven but it's almost eleven and I can't be bothered anymore.
I actually just saw my friend Sally in middle of the road, and she opened an ironing board and stood there for a few moments, staring into our headlights. FOR REAL.
But that's another story.
How strange and wonderful! Love that last image...I can smell the heat of an iron.
your feet, covered in dirt and sock fuzz
will not, will NOT sleep next to mine in bed
you will rinse them in the rotten egg water
"well, what's in it for me?"
Hey I say, if the urge to iron comes upon you....don't fight it, just go with it....even if it is in the dark in the middle of the street.
Oh, my, Sarah, where in the world is the rotten egg water? 'Cuz that's naaaasty. I wouldn't share a bed with someone with all that junk on their feet, either, and the rotten egg water wouldn't make me offer said person much in return for their relative cleanliness.
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