CHORES

Alone in the basement, I'm smoothing
the pockets, collars, wide open backs
of my father's well-worn shirts.
I test the temperatures
with a spit-moistened fingertip,
run the iron over absent-minded
ink stains on the breast pocket,
discover burnt matches
and flecks of tobacco
inside. I flatten out
the nervous stains under the arms
and the permanent hair oil line
on the inside collar.
Slipping my arms into warm sleeves,
I come to understand his true size.

I hang his shirts on a hook,
all facing the same direction,
perfectly clean, buttoned and pressed,
even though he thinks ironing,
like making beds or mopping floors,
is a complete waste of time.
I don't care. I will never know him
more intimately than those evenings
filled with laundry soap and drying lint
when I held his warm shirts to my face.