I was ironing my blue shirt for work when,
out of nowhere, not an image
or something you said, not even your name,
just a feeling of you, after so many years.
And I cursed the iron for being time,
and the shirt for having something to do with spring.
I was desperate for anything to blame
for forgetting you,
anything to pull over my shoulders
and button myself into.
I was ironing my blue shirt for work
and thinking how little it mattered now
to anyone but me.
John Smith's book, Even That Indigo, was published was published by Hip Pocket Press in 2012.