My iron died.
Half way through a T-shirt.
I saw a faint waft of smoke rising,
so I think it's really gone.
This iron has traveled many miles;
smoothed suit jacket and sari,
meri-blous and school shirt.
It's grimy on one side,
with a residue picked up in Pokhara,
and smooth on the other by frequent use.
I've even got a shiny scar
the hot nudging of this iron
on the inside of my wrist.
Goodbye my trusty friend.
It's been a crease free 17 years.
Penny Reeve, 2015.
The Penny Drops
In high school I used to write what I'd call 'thinks' - little bits of writing about whatever topic or issue I was mulling over at the time. I still write these little pieces.
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