I watch Agnes on a summer afternoon.
My focus is on sleek repetitive movements
of the iron.
Translucent steam rises from droplets
of shaken water.

The Coca-Cola bottle, a fixture on the ironing board.
A misty filter floats around Agnes’ face
giving her a soft uninterpreted look.

I admire Agnes’ fine boned golden hands
as they lift and spread sweet linens.
She presses heat into cloth’s creases and wrinkles.
She smoothes and creates beauty from chaos.

I savor the sound of steam like rain on parched dry pavement.
I inhale clean fabric enhanced by the drying in the sun.

Agnes, in her slow Negro dialect relates tales of her childhood.
I want to make dolls out of corn cobs and dried shucks.
I don’t want to have things, like the Madame Alexander doll
that sits on a shelf.

I see beads of sweat forming on Agnes’ forehead.
She picks up her glass of sweet tea and holds it to her face.
“Ahhh.” she offers a sound of relief.

Southern colors of the day end and at night the soft breezes
knows no difference as they blow from one side of town to the other.