There is nothing to say about this poem–just buy the book.
The Age of Iron
When I see an ironing board
folded in the closet of a motel room,
and the iron resting like a sledgehammer on the shelf above,
I think of the Age of Iron
and my mother standing in the kitchen,
folding clothes on the green table,
a bottle if spray starch at her elbow, not even the radio on—