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.