And It Was at That Age

And It Was at That Age

Is a line from a Neruda
poem. I love Neruda
with his celebration

of common, everyday
items. He could build
a poem out of nails

and boards, and cement.
I wish I could iron
poetry as crisp as his.

I take words out of the laundry
basket, smooth them a bit,
spray Niagara all over,

and begin to press.
Steam rises but, somehow,
the creases are crooked,

the collars buckle,
then they hang lopsidedly
on hangars in my kitchen

waiting to be put away.
I hide these poems
in a dark closet

then sit in the living room,
open a book of poetry
by Pablo Neruda

and read of the sea,
his home, food, carpentry,
and fresh laundry.