Iron Stain

Is it ironic when
your iron is coal
And instead of smoothing the creases
it powders and steams
a legion of black
And stain
And muck

Or is that how we function, anyway
heading toward the crowds of black blouses
And stain
And muck

And we walk with them
Even when we recall the bliss
of white shirts
with maybe a crease, there

And now it's on your face
That stain
And muck