sunday night laundry

at the iron,
in the basement. a single
light swinging
from the rafters.
the washing machine
churning.
sunday night.
the cold floor under
your bare feet.
a basket of white
and blue
shirts,
awaiting to be pressed.
you think of
your mother on nights like
this.
how peaceful she
was to iron,
to steam
and spray starch
along a sleeve or collar,
smoothing out the wrinkles,
then placing them onto a hanger,
how still her world was
with us in bed, not quite
asleep,
her radio on low,
Sinatra,
the platters.
nat king cole.