Now It's Used for Yardwork

I press out wrinkles with giddy pleasure In boxers: fold, tuck, crease out Every imperfection with rhythmic intensity The reordered threads rise up on unmade sheets I attend to each arm of each shirt, feeling the cloth & embossed ironies /teams /movies; a shirt Reversed, tucked and folded like momma Taught me. She bought me the T-shirt And I press the crags and bunched-up Collars of laundry left in the bin Past due – clothing unhampered until The cool fabric clenched into a dry ball Halfway through a shirt I pull out 5 dollars and a receipt for two Chinese chicken combos I toss the receipt, tuck the rest In my wallet, casually smooth, tuck And fold the shirt again and again This won’t clean the room But still – Momma’d be proud – she cleaned Like a whirlwind winter storm, reordering Stained autumn messes while we slept ‘Cause because is a far more textile word than We think, prone to lint and burn marks and Grass and mud and booze and blood and yes Love. And sometimes an unwashed wrinkle Caked in her smell, tucked in the folds Of some fabric imploding in the corner