Another Wrong Fedora

The Pleasures of Ironing

One is the aerial view, a tiny landscape,
little wads of mountain, wet from fast-moving clouds,
pushed by the iron into blue and white-checked prairies.
Even better is the aroma―cooking for unanimal purposes.

 

When she finishes, my wife unplugs
and winds the cord around the handle,
and sets the iron, cooling, off to one side.
With a stiff-bristled brush,
she flicks the wrinkles
to the edge of the ironing board
and into a translucent bag.
With a blue wire twist she ties it shut.
She loads the bag only two-thirds full.
It's not all that wasteful:
It takes three or four ironings
to get this many.

 

When we remember, we place the bags curb-side
every third Wednesday, every other month.
There they are picked up by a special truck,
hauled to a steep-walled landfill way north of town,
and set out in long even rows. At night
the ghosts of deer who once lived there come
to drink the memory of water
from the capped spring,
to look for the trees
whose leaves they ate.