Ironing Board

Another of my ‘thing’ poem experiment, also inspired by another play. (I’m doing drama writing and poetry this semester.)

Ironing Board

Tucked in a corner,

legs folded beneath,

like a surf board left drying

after riding the waves.

Instead, upright, it’s a bed

awaiting the weight of a heated press

gliding along fabric waves.

Once the star of a John Osborne’s play

where it rode the waves of fame.

It now looks back in anger,

and ponders its domestic end.

About vickychong

Just an ordinary woman.
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