Disquietude
Rustle my mind

Iron out the creases 
Left me with nothing
But perfect pleats
I can't bear to understand
And flat surfaces 
Lacking the wrinkles

Of chocolate
Of stories
Of moments

Maybe of passion
Maybe of clumse
Maybe of sadness

Then again
Doesn't no wrinkles
Tell the story of
A perfectly ironed shirt

A moment
A story

Maybe of passionate ironing
Maybe of clumsy ironing
Maybe of sad ironing

Who am I to judge this shirt-mind
Perhaps 
The ironing
Is chocolate
In and of itself.