The steam rises up in a rhythmic cloud, While the rest of the world is laughing loud. He stands in the kitchen, the board creaking low, With forty-eight hours before he must go.
Five shirts for the week, laid out in a row, Like soldiers in waiting, with nowhere to go. He traces the collar, he masters the sleeve, In a cycle of labor that offers no leave.
It’s not just the fabric he’s smoothing away, But the creases of worry from a long working day. The coins are for transit, the notes are for rent, So the cost of the laundry is energy spent.
He dreams of the morning he’ll wake up and say, "Take these to the cleaners, I’m busy today." But for now, there is dignity found in the heat, Keeping things sharp while he stays on his feet.
His hands may be tired, his bank account lean, But he’ll walk through those doors looking polished and clean. For the man in the mirror is playing the part, With a crease in his trousers and fire in his heart.
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