Coconut charcoal fills the iron box.
Smoke from singed cotton hangs in the back room.
Knuckles, dark with ash, press the weight across a stiff collar.
Steam escapes beneath the iron’s lip.
On the radio, a sudden burst of static cuts the news.
The jackwood table is grooved and warped from a thousand afternoons.
A wrist strains, driving the iron across damp creases.
The iron lands with a metallic thud.
Grey flakes settle into the wood grain.