Across from the fried-egg
fug and clatter of the café
a woman stands ironing
in the big bay window
of a first floor flat.
It’s a wet November day
and the low light and drizzle
darken her room so that
she must come to the glass
overlooking the cold street,
ironing, pulling, ironing,
folding, wide white sheets.
The woman brightens briefly
as light from shaken linen
bounces around the room.
Once or twice another
face appears then slips
again into the gloom.
She finishes a sheet,
stretches her arms wide
to fold it and fold it
then puts it aside,
backs away from the bay
to return with another.
I wonder if the radio is playing?
If the iron hisses and squirts
small jets of steam,
and if the room is damp
with the smell of laundry,
starch and November rain?
At the café’s counter
a cork pinboard
with handwritten cards
offers baby-sitting,
dog walking, bookkeeping,
and an ad from Maureen:
Widow takes in ironing
I glance up and there she is:
arms out, a corner in each hand,
folds draping around her.
Here in a first floor flat
above a harbor town street
the widow Maureen
and Corcovado meet.
