Quite the peculiar contraption, dare I note,
Found long in its rush beyond bespoke,
To steaming plates in every home,
To uncrinkle seams and lines that roam,
Upon the fabric 'till the metal scorch it into uniform.

Spent days clink as coins in weathered digits,
Oily rust stretched through the air encumbered,
I roll them on the clock's face worn,
They scratch at hands, but still at calloused pad
Above, pressed down to stop the noisy coins,

As hours roll to night,
The coins are scattered spent.