Wednesday, April 29, 2009


The iron exhales
On cloth and pins.
I breathe the plastic smelling
Of steam curls, and reach for
More white cotton.

Wrinkles smoothed away,
I push timidly on
The pedal, causing the
Machine to shudder and whir.

Silver foot stays the course
While jackrabbit legs pump,
Leaving behind snowy,
White inverted footprints.

Winding thread flows down in
Tight curlicues that race
So quickly they appear
Still--they enter the eye.

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