THE IRONING BORAD

I used to sell
Ironing boards
In the dark ages!
In an age when nobody
Bought a pig in
A poke.
Back then, responsible people
Like store managers
Expected responsible salesmen
To show them a sample
Of their wares.
I toted an ironing board,
Traveling from city to city
By train.

Usually overnight.
Pullman.
Upper berth.
Cheaper!
Cheap was a legitimate word
Back then.
Necessity, forced me to stow
My ironing board
Along the outer wall,
Of my upper berth.
 A great way
To travel,
With comfort, conversation
And surprises!

One night, en-route
To Chicago
I couldn’t sleep
So, I opened the berth,
Sat up to smoke a cigarette.
A movie star. So it seems,
Unwound two lovely legs
Just opposite of my berth.
Conversation ensued.
How were we to
Get together
Without waking
The people
In  the lower berths?

My ironing board!
Honey, I have something
Long enough
Stiff enough
And strong enough
To reach across
The isle
You can get across on it.
A voice from
The lower berth -
Okay, wise guy
How in the hell is she  going
To get
Back?