Creased

Mount Ironing, you bastard!

My deplorable Everest,

the seemingly unconquerable

clothing conquest,

I look up to the heavens,

I wonder if this is a test,

I want a hug, I give a shrug,

I suppose I’ll do my best.

 

Sorting through the crinkled,

wrinkled wrongdoing,

I fight back tears and rising fears

of the futility eschewing,

the impossible likelihood

of completing the task, it

looks like a war-zone

in this blasted basket.

 

It almost hurts to see the shirts

and trousers in abundance,

but the excuses to procrastinate

have finally met redundancy,

so I set the iron to steam,

the dream of pressed clothes, dawning,

but then I think, to hell with it,

I’ll do it in the morning!

 

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5 thoughts on “Creased

  1. I hate ironing so I choose outfits that require minimum care. A fantastic poem which tackles a very mundane task with humor 😀

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