Ironing

The boundaries are drawn…

Image designed by the author

Imaginary lines have been drawn
on hard flat planes of our home
what do we do when creases seem to unfold
and what’s folded become a mountain

that darkens the blue jeans crisp
jeans with hot straight lines while
you iron khakis starched polyester
that hiss and moan before you press deeper

Our old threadbare clothes you remember
the shirts with parallel lines from cuff, to sleeve neck tracing your fingers over the product molding into modesty

before we go to church

I wanted to take a simple task for this poem, and not include any punctuation. Just a task, but do you think there is more to this? Let me know in the comments!

Thanks for reading!