Ironing to Do

I remember watching my mother
iron
for hours. standing at the board
with a basket of clothes
at her feet.
she was there, but not there.
caught in the moment
of doing something so simple
that it hardly took thought.
each shirt stretched out,
the sleeves, the creases.
dress after dress, pants, even
sheets were pressed warm
then folded. the breath of steam
from the hot iron,
the spray of starch.
she was safe there.
the world was another place
beyond this tight laundry
room, with a dangling light
and a curious son on the floor
watching.
the world could wait, she
had ironing to do.