On ironing a shirt

ON IRONING A SHIRT sounds like some kind of poem title, but this isn't a poem.

As I was ironing Rick's shirt this morning. Yes I do iron, not because I like to, but because I like the way ironed things feel. I noticed the perfect hem at the bottom. I realised that this shirt had travelled all the way from Asian country.

Someone, probably a woman, had put this shirt under a sewing machine and run it through. I've seen the films of the long columns of women bent over machines.

How many other women sit near her?

How old was she? 

How many years had she gone to school if at all?

Does she have children?

How many if so?

Where does she live?

Does she have running water?

How much does she make to produce this shirt for my husband?

Has she ever been beaten?

My life touched hers for a moment. I wish her well.