THE IRONING LADIES (LES REPASSEUSES) by Edgar Degas & Sal Buttaci

                     THE IRONING LADIES (LES REPASSEUSES) 

 Painting by Edgar Degas, 1884. Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994.

"I have had my fill, I tell you!

This morning I could have slept

at least till noon

but Claude up early before the geese,

raged in another of his foul-mouthed

moods, not finding this or that,

blaming me--

Can you imagine, Jeanne?

blaming me for hiding it,

I who ask only for sleep!

 

A lunatic, I tell you!

Why did I marry him?

That question confounds me more

than Who and Where Is God This Morning?

and What's a Working Woman to Hope For?

 

Still, you had to see him when he was young.

Has it been twenty-six years already?

How time escapes us!

Claude was the envy of every man:

he moved with grace,

little children and puppy dogs followed him,

waving their tails--

The puppy dogs, of course.

The children called him the good names

they did not feel to call their own fathers.

 

A handsome figure of a man!

And not afraid as most men to demonstrate

how much he loved life,

how much he thought the world of me.

 

Why, once on the Rue de Margarite

he kissed both my cheeks 

on the brightest of afternoons!

Oh, Claude was so daring!

 

 

Jeanne, what is it about time

that transforms a soul into a stranger?

It is as if Claude the young handsome lover

and this overweight, cognac-drinking oaf

who snores in our bed, curses, accuses me

of every ill that comes to him,

this unloving, callous--let me even say,

cruel--impostor were someone else.

 

He never gives his mouth a rest.

Perish the idea he should be silent

for the likes of me, 

the woman who once adored the ground

he walked on!"

 

                                       "Pauline, we must hurry.

                                       Sprinkle the water on these sheets.

                                       It's Tuesday afternoon!

                                       I want to strike while the iron is hot!"

 

"There is time, Jeanne.

There is always time.

The iron is hot; 

this morning my bed was not.

How I would appreciate going back home

for a day's rest alone, embracing my pillow.

Excuse me!  

There I go yawning again.

When we were young, Claude would tease me

and say if I yawned too widely--

my mouth open like a cave--

the summer flies would find a happy home!

And I would blush and yawn again,

the two of us laughing, so much in love."

 

                                     "And today we are tending

                                     to our white-wash, these shirts,

                                     some skirts. Do be a good sister

                                     and hurry, Pauline!

                                     Fill the bottle again with water.

                                     There is no time today to reminisce."

 

"Once Claude took my hand--

Here!  There is still water in the bottle--

he took my hand and said with a sweetness,

such brazen sincerity, 

'Pauline, together we will one day

walk into eternity.'

 

 Can you imagine that?

Hah! Eternity, is it?

When Claude lies beside me in bed,

sprawled so like some huge hairy spider,

I lean myself against the edge,

wondering what movie did I once see

so long ago

about this man and this woman--

Claude and Pauline: the two of us!

At what moment did they run away?

What was the month and what year

did this tragedy of ours begin?"

 

                                     "Pauline, sprinkle, sprinkle!

                                    There is no time to reminisce.

                                    We have too much to do."

 

                                                     #

 

The above poem first appeared in my book Impressions: 13 French-Painting Poems (Saddle Brook, NJ: New Worlds Unlimited), 3-6.

 

Salvatore Buttaci’s two collections of flash fiction 200 Shorts and Flashing My Shorts are both published by All Things That Matter Press and are available in book and Kindle editions at http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet

His new book If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems   http://tinyurl.com/76akl73  

Buttaci lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.