Ode to my iron.

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.