MAN WITH IRON

Hot metal. Steam.

This is what it takes

 

to smooth out

the wrinkles.

 

I’m ironing again.

Something

 

I rarely do.

I am going to 

 

a recommitment

ceremony. Last time

 

I ironed I wore

a tuxedo for the wrong

 

reasons and under false

pretenses—with a hope

in my heart 

that did not pan out.

Because I iron

so infrequently

these two times

are bunched up

in my mind,

are coupled 

as one, that I wear

like an irreconcilable 

memory that bares 

a crease 

 

I can’t seem 

to rub out.

 

A sadness

that only time

       in time 

will make

wrinkle-free.