Nothing so useless as an ironing board
in the home of fatigue and distraction.
Of course we have an ironing board.
Everyone does, and I’m pretty sure
it was born the same year as I.
We got this from Matt’s parent’s old house.
Spent maybe six years of my life there
with the scarlet shag carpeting and white paneled walls
in the family room,
reclining on the bright red couch,
straining to hear if his parents
went up to bed,
hearing the heavy thumps
of an elderly Scottish terrier,
a black brick of a dog,
climbing the stairs
one by one
above our heads.
But what did his parents do for an ironing board
once we took theirs?
Did they have a spare?
Maybe when you have children,
you buy extras
and tell your sons and daughters,
one day this ironing board will be yours,
and you dream of them ironing their dress pants
and starching white collars,
but ours remains folded up somewhere in the basement
hibernating in mildewed darkness
until the next moving day.