Late at night, at the shrine to the ironing woman she stands alone smoothing the world. Eyes stare through TV flickers in a white room dancing beneath a halo of fluorescent light. Surrounded by her memories, photo frames on every surface & every surface dressed in lace. Faces watch & wait for
her to join them, hold a place for her, she slow dances somnambulant, little puffs of steam – left to right & back again, left to right & back.