Poem for the Day: Sally in the Street

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.