I’ve wiped her mascara tears so many times
I’m striped as a zebra. I patted her forehead when
she had a fever. Embroidered in me is the letter W,
the family crest. I’m not the original. I would have

been a P. I prefer the W, as it is not the sound
of a word that describes ****** functions. And besides,
it has more prestige. She’s wrung me out in her hand
waiting in the doctor’s office for her exam. I’ve been pulled,

and prodded. I’ve been stuffed in her
pockets. I’ve been beaten up in the wash. I’ve been thrown
and tossed. She took me to funerals. She took me
to weddings. She even used me when she didn’t have

a sanitary napkin! I’ve dabbed her mouth. It felt
sublime when her lipstick kiss imprinted on me like
a Monet garden swirled in reverie. I’ve been there
from the beginning. Sometimes I even smell like the sauce

she is cooking! I’ve cleaned up many a spill
for her. I’ve dulled and lost my color. But she still needs
me. I’m her best friend. What would she do when
her allergies start acting up and let’s out a Big A – Choo?