ironing

shirt after shirt
your mother
stood
at the ironing board,
the full basket beside her,
pressing
the iron, her strong
hands
pulling, smoothing,
pushing
as it hissed
and steamed down sleeves
around collars, exhaled.
she was one
with this work.
lost easily
in a world of creases.
spray starch.
hangers waiting
along
the pipe for clothes.
go to bed she'd yell
up the steps,
hearing our bare feet
tap down the hall.
it's late.
you have school tomorrow,
pressing harder,
as the clocked
moved, and him,
your wayward father,
not home.