On the ironing board she counted his fingers
because all she had were his hands.

She chose the ironing board, so that
whenever her thoughts stuck, she’d slam
that iron hard down on those glaring digits
and try not to think about them.

Though they were flat and wrinkle free,
they were still there.

Daniel Payne

If you've any comment on this poem, Daniel Payne would be pleased to hear from you.