was a private thing
for my mother.
standing at the board,
the radio on,
a pile of clothes at her feet.
her children's
shirts and pants,
dresses
now off the line
and in a basket.
i'd peek in
to see her softly humming
to a song.
left alone
at last under the bare
bulb,
her feet on the cold
slab floor.
the steam would sizzle
from the hot
iron
as she pushed it along.
sometimes
she'd see me looking
in,
and stop
to ask me what,
what's wrong?
nothing?
i'd tell her. nothing.
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