Chores & Choices

Is it weird
to confess that I kind-of like ironing,
pressing out each tiny wrinkle?

Am I alone
or does that ring a bell with you?
Do I hear a soft tinkle?

Then again, it does depend
on how high the pile ...
if it seems there's no end
then it's harder to smile.

This cold November day, iron in hand,
I shook out a shirt, ready to press,
and out flew a butterfly,
keen to leave the hot seat, I guess,
and escape when I opened the window.
He wouldn't stay:
flat refused,
you might say.

poem © Celia Warren 2013

Line dancing tonight: yay! But, while I'm out, if you see any smoke rising from this blip, please remove the iron and dial 999. Thanks.