Iron

The iron sits at the top of my closet, waiting to flatten my toe. I can see it there, dripping and still hot, cord dangling from its loose placement on the handle. In the grabbing of a sweater or a pair of pants I will knock it just enough to send it tumbling down. My reflexes, good though once they were, will not be enough to save my skin and nail. I will be crushed and burned beneath the iron, as warm and creased as a Sunday shirt.