The folding of a clean towel
The human presence washed away
A towel from my first home
I keep it anyway
That my mother’s calloused hands would smooth down
Smiling a little out of pride
That ended up on the bathroom floor
Swimming in pools of used bathwater
Where my father’s smell would linger
Of shaving soap and the sweat from work
A coral red and pink towel
Worn thin from use
I keep it folded over, no one knows why –
How I would open the airing cupboard
With the huge copper boiler
Where the warm crisp laundry sat folded
And reaching up to the top shelf
I would pull down this very towel
