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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

 

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