Someday, I will iron my shirts,
But not now.

When my tongue renounces flavor, I'll be ready.
When Ella Fitzgerald no longer hurries my blood,
And I've heard every stranger's story
Then my time will be better spent 
Pursuing wrinkles.

But in the meantime,
If a tree falls in the forest, I'll be there to hear it
And when every tree in every forest
Has betrayed its life for me,
Time has bleached my lover's fingers white
And my skin is stippled and wrinkled,
Then I will iron a shirt.

But not now, not now, not now.