Eye stove, sink, fridge, counter, trash. Pull down the board to iron a shirt for tomorrow. Think – ironing the yoke – of iron enriching the blood, iron at the earth’s core, the irony of steeling myself for the office.

Linen steam calms the nose. Smoothing wrinkles soothe the eye. Thunk and glide of iron lull.

Wince at stud pierced tongue.

Think of the – creasing sleeves, smartening cuffs – office as a cathedral of icy digits, jargon-blizzards, techno-blitzes, hoary acronyms that freezerburn the mind not to mind redundant hells of worsening change for the better.

Tug at tongue frosted to altar. Concentrate on – to sidestep daymares – perfecting tails. Flatten facing between buttons.

Finished, spring board back into cabinet between fridge and stove. Prop iron upright on counter. Don clean fragrant Arrow. Button up. Tuck in.

Step through door beside trash into garage. Start Civic. Amble around behind. Kneel between trunk and wall displaying rakes, shovels, shears, other garden implements of torture.

Drape quilt over head. Press mouth to exhaust. Hyperventilate.

The iron in the blood bonds to monoxide. I fall – with a slight headache – asleep against the pipe. Find in a fist the key to the gate through which to throw myself at the claws of the iron throne. Ironed shirt warm still from smoothing the irony of new and improved.