bring back as souvenirs

dear good morning towel who marked you red leaving the g unfinished the gentle greeting of “ood” the symmetry of the sloping M the cloth stamped with the number 96 two ruddy halves on the white woven pattern speckled rows of empty boxes a reminder they want our food but not us our hospitality but not us wash your face wrap your hair it’s this bright white so you can tell when its ready to rinse under warm water a marketing strategy a portal to pink plastic cups oily spaghetti with finger thick garlic bread at the hong kong style café dribbling tea on the pastel table the metal counter at the cooking school in college where your parents cleaned animal blood polished knives wiped away each other’s mistakes wound around a man’s neck at the night market to collect sweat on a bright white collar the natty fringe brushing the lacquer chair in the sitting room at the bottom of grandma’s good leather purse with the clasp that closes quick as an eye on guests at a funeral to hold to their faces when they say goodbye issued to a soldier in need of repair to prevent bed pillows from carrying ungodly stains the care is in the tightness of the loops a single piece you cut into twelve equal parts the indestructible weave wrapping a body a surface a material hung up to dry like an elder’s altar kept longer than a child a country a permit a bank account a mailing address dear good morning towel who made you so cheerful with service soaked in a lifetime of attention so good at your work we almost forgot you could be thrown away reduced to a counterfeit a pile of holey rags a piece of the hands that touched you disappearing into the fabric dear good morning towel you’re spread out you’re getting lost in the laundry at the bottom of a stone well stuffed into a plastic crate on a busy Chinatown street between fingers desperate to feel clean you’re spreading like a sea we can fold and unfold anytime like a map