Patricia Whiting Fine Arts

In the laundry room
I iron blouses–
arms mechanically
going through the motions
while eyes focus
on a sleeve, a pleat, a collar.
In the periphery
the silvery, scorch-proof
ironing board cover.

My mother bought hers
from the Fuller Brush man.
But most door-to-door salesmen
were as welcome as the preacher
come to talk about the tithe.

One day, seeing a salesman
headed toward the house,
we hid behind the couch.
Like a mother cat, my mother
taught her offspring
by example.

From my mother I learned
that honesty doesn’t demand
we answer the door
every time the doorbell rings.
That integrity sometimes calls
for being less than honest.

Bringing up a child
is like ironing a blouse.
Wordlessly, the wrinkles
are ironed out
and the garment shaped.