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The Chinese Laundryman
He is a librarian of laundry seen through his window labeled Yem Fung. His hair the color of Christmas tinsel is a tarnished blossom between the poinsettias that flourish in the steam heat of his trade. His life is shelved with sleeves and collars sheets renewed for love or loneliness. His labor is to make crisp again what everyday is worn or slept between. Among the fleshy leaves of begonias head bent to my craft, I attempt to iron truisms shabby as the sheets of love or to turn the frayed collar of a thought as I fight the wear of centuries to make, one more time, the fabric hold.