-the hours between 5 and 7 PM-

1.
In the beginning
the oilcloth
is swiped with the dishrag

to prepare the table for its setting.

In the end
the oilcloth
is swiped with the dishrag

to close-out the chapter.

between these moments

lies the body of work, the living quarters,

the barely controlled chaos
the struggle for the prime-
cuts at the beam, the belly
of the fresh baked pane.

on the floor at the table, the arched
sitting posture of anticipation is

displayed by two determined cats.

2.

he wears his necktie at the supper table.

there is no requirement

for him to “change-up” after a day on the road.

from barroom to barroom, restaurant to restaurant,
the scent of stale beer hangs over him

wafting into the pungent scent of petroleum

released from the oilcloth.

If it’s not the summer of houseflies
it’s the field-mice of winter, warming-up
in the pantry's cupboard under the sink

seeking refuge from the cold machinery
of the junkyard's metal-to-metal dissonance
beyond the backyard fence. 

the clip holds them down,

holds them in place
like the clip of the salesman's necktie
holds it in place at the hemline of the button's row.

3.
the dress-shirt of the road-weary liquor salesman 

is refreshed and ironed in the early evening.

the ironing board
is set-up in the living room,

locked into place waist high
and she irons with steam heat,
working the board over the plains
of cloth, paving the fissures smooth 
as the family gathers for the nightly
hypnotics of television.

the rehabilitated dress-shirt
is hung by wood at the shoulders
from the top of the closet's door

and through an act of permanence
she runs her hands the length of its sleeves,
confident in its appearance for one more day,––
another day out there on the open road.

                                                Quequechan