My husband is watching me iron
My husband is watching me iron. Steam reassures him. The hiss of starch The probing slide around each button of his shirt Speaks to him of Solway Street in Pittsburgh. As for me, the wicker basket is a reproach. There is last summer's nightgown, And several awkward tablecloths Which refuse to lie flat. My house specializes in these challenges. Bags of mail I did not ask to receive choke the floor of my linen closet. A photograph of me, holding a baby on a beach. But which beach and, for that matter, which baby? A Japanese chest whose bottom drawer has irresponsibly locked itself, And who can remember where I put the key? That night, waiting for sleep, I whisper, I did only trivial things today. And he asks, Why aren't you painting?