For Company
I must’ve asked my mom at some point
Cause I hear her reply clear as day,
Though I can’t recall ever inquiring on
The necessity of such display.

The chemical smell embedded by factories,
Inherent to most new fabric,
Had long since dissipated over the years,
Still my avoidance of them was automatic.

The linens, perfectly aligned over the bar,
Pink ones arranged over gray,
Untouched since displayed years ago
For company coming, someday.

I do not disturb the hand towels,
Just offer them an understanding grin,
As I shake and pat hands on hips,
Recalling the irony all over again.

The nice, soft, never-to-be-used hand towels,
Prominently displayed all along
The one towel bar in my childhood bathroom,
Still echoing that I’ll never belong.
© Buffy Lee