I ironed my slacks this morning
and then my shirt, and wondered
why the fuss? What, pray tell,
is wrong with wrinkles?
When he crinkles his nose,
how is that not as appealing
as the smooth face of the stoic
or smile lines of the aged chief?
Why is one grandmother,
spared from time’s unenviable tracks
by her own gene pool, complimented
while the other is pitied for the well earned
folds that testify to her endurance?
The scarce commodity of time
creates its own type of pressing.
But if you want to see what pressing
actually does, just ask Giles Cory
or the great criminals of
of Greek and Roman mythology,
such as the Judas-like Tarpeia who
betrayed Rome for a necklace.
Sit with me at the school
conference table with a parent.
When she begins a line of questioning
and her eternal condemnation unfurls
as she lifts the great stone
of judgment above her head
readying for the drop,
her offspring remains inert–
not realizing that he could leave the table,
go outside, breathe fresh air,
save his life, remain beautifully himself–
wrinkled a bit, but beautiful.