the ironing board is skew
yet the folds in my pants fit it perfectly
the weight of the iron strains between gravity and fold
the heat threatens a scorching
as creases resist defiantly
the pleats of life
raise their voice
as life pleats on
relentlessly
and then
if we get it right
perhaps just for a day
even just part of the day
a simple wearing
a light walk around the block
a mild rubbing
perhaps only an unexpected scuffling
even a spot of moisture…
that’s all it takes
flesh sharpens fabric
and the skewness returns
the creases spring back
to press on is like ironing
only different
