Delta40
10-20-2011, 06:26 PM
The ironing board creaks
as the steam iron glides across.
With a practised hand, I know what I'm doing.
Each end is strong enough to
hold the tomes of books
which I have promised myself to read.
One day...I'll take them seriously.
Right now they're so heavy,
when I do the inside leg,
they neither rock or threaten to topple.
Between my mountains of books,
another shot of steam dampens my idle dreams
and I resent pressing these grey trousers.
Trousers of 9-5 everydayness.
They dare interrupt an age of chivalry,
Ceasar Borgia
and the poems of Dryden?
What a taunting reminder to me that
there is a time and a place for a crease.
One day....I'll fold the far corner of some pages,
when I am free to pursue my passion -
maybe before the sun goes down...
What person would wish to lose their place
or their own self meaning from a lifetime of ironing?
But today the trousers demand a perfect press.
I smooth out the wrinkles with more steam.
The trousers are done,
I bid farewell to whimsy on an ironing board,
creases and wrinkles etched in my face
as I lock the door behind me and run for the bus.
as the steam iron glides across.
With a practised hand, I know what I'm doing.
Each end is strong enough to
hold the tomes of books
which I have promised myself to read.
One day...I'll take them seriously.
Right now they're so heavy,
when I do the inside leg,
they neither rock or threaten to topple.
Between my mountains of books,
another shot of steam dampens my idle dreams
and I resent pressing these grey trousers.
Trousers of 9-5 everydayness.
They dare interrupt an age of chivalry,
Ceasar Borgia
and the poems of Dryden?
What a taunting reminder to me that
there is a time and a place for a crease.
One day....I'll fold the far corner of some pages,
when I am free to pursue my passion -
maybe before the sun goes down...
What person would wish to lose their place
or their own self meaning from a lifetime of ironing?
But today the trousers demand a perfect press.
I smooth out the wrinkles with more steam.
The trousers are done,
I bid farewell to whimsy on an ironing board,
creases and wrinkles etched in my face
as I lock the door behind me and run for the bus.