In marigold mornings
the coffee was kept hot
for any neighborhood woman
knocking at the front door
Arms crossed on front porches,
hair still dark and blond and red,
they laughed at everything,
their friendly talk and occasional breezes
stirring living room lace curtains
In the humidity of August,
these women washed and ironed
overflowing bushel baskets
of shirts and dress pants
for friends next door
or three doors down,
too sick that month to stand
over ironing boards
On late afternoons,
tight mouthed and silent,
they slid their irons hastily over creases
of the collars of their own men’s shirts,
slammed irons upright, slid irons again
down the sleeves and bibs and hems
As boys watching mothers
from kitchen chairs
we wondered if it was us,
not our fathers,
who had done something wrong