I spend almost all my time these days
sitting on a shelf, ironing board hanging
from hooks on the wall below.
Occasionally, I feel my owner’s hand
as she lifts me and presses my warm weight
on the sleeve of a shirt or the pleat of a skirt.
I see my owner’s clothes so rarely,
I can’t keep up with fashions of the day.
Who is caring for her clothes, if not me?
I have a hunch those labels that say:
“Permanent Press” are to blame
for my shift in status.
I want to talk to my friends about what’s happening,
but can’t connect unless we’re both plugged in.
Lately, it seems, no one is there.
I sit on the shelf and wonder—
will I ever have another chance
to get all steamed up?
