DETACHABLE COLLARS: SUMMER 1956
He had owned the laundry
Where I worked, summers of my
college years,
Passed it on to a nephew
But would still come in
About ten o’clock
And walk around the steamy
room,
Greeting the girls, he called
them,
At the mangle, a flirtatious
grin
For the one who took the
third fold.
Then he would repair to his
ancient, private press
And—slowly, carefully—finish
The detachable collars that a
few
Fellow octogenarians still
wore,
Weekly packages mailed from Biddeford , Maine .
Weary, he’d sit in the
office,
Reading the Laundryman’s Journal,
Out of Joliet , Illinois ,
And murmur, to no one in
particular,
Heard only by the young bookkeeper,
Who did not have long to
live,
As it happened,
So much work to get out, he sighed;
So much work.
He went quietly one August
night.
That morning we took a few
hours off,
Dale, the washman, and I,
Awkward in our only suits,
But came back in at two o’clock :
So much work to get out.
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