My grandmother took in pressing to earn

something extra for her Christmas Club

and to pay my grandfather’s gambling debts.

On steamy summer mornings, I played jacks

sitting on her floor, her heavy iron

sputtering on the board above my head,

as she pressed the dress-shirts of the rich.

Desire for graceful things burnt its seal on me then.

The sleeves of the shirts hung down near my face,

perfumed with starch and linen water, warm

as they brushed my cheek. First among all

the crisp white disappointments of this world.