Ode to the Dry Cleaner

[Sometimes I like to write poetry. When simple thanks just won’t suffice, I say write an ode!]

When I handed you my jacket
I tried to hurriedly explain
Just how it got so dirty,
How the soot got so ingrained.
You took one look and calmly said,
“This will be difficult to clean.”
And I could hardly blame you
As my eyes took in the scene:

It smelled of wood-smoke
Like the fire
We’d gathered gaily round,
The ash had coated
—Soaked right in—
My jacket’s pink façade.
The oily food we
Had devoured
Left speckles on my sleeve,
And I don’t dare to
Just what that smudge might be.

You said to come back in three days,
Charged me no more than standard fee
I figured for that price, hey,
Your best effort would suit me!
Never in a million years did
I imagine what I’d see:
My jacket pink like baby’s skin,
That brand-new kind of clean.
I stammered admiration,
Scarce believing my own eyes,
But you just smiled and humbly said,
“—It was difficult to clean.”


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