ironing
when she died.
she grabbed her heart
and fell
backwards
onto the bed.
the iron still on,
hot.
she was half dressed
in her studio apartment.
getting ready to begin her
day.
her hand was on her heart.
there was no
one to call.
no one to write to.
i remember how pale
her skin
was
against her black skirt.
her heels,
on,
her briefcase near the door.
just a blouse
left
to get the wrinkles out.
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