Ode to a Towel

Ode to a Towel

Oh damp towel: to thee I sing: the song of a thousand songs.
Crumpled as you are and pre-musty as you may be,
I look on you with a certain longing, for your crunchy form,
For your terry-clothed wrinkles, for your rebirth in the spin cycle.

Oh damp towel: to thee I bring: the hope of a thousand hopes.
Of showers, of tears, of starting anew in the baths of glory.
Sitting cleanly on the floor, taking up the odors of the floor,
Heaped yet supple, ready to polish my missed spots and crevices.

Oh damp towel: from thee I flee: the memory of a thousand baptisms.
The fact of dirt washed away and re-communing on skin and cotton.
Drying and collecting and drying and moistening and drying and drenching,
Upon the face and ass without regard, without deference to the former.

Oh damp towel: for thee I am: the purpose of a thousand purposes.
Unconcerned with clean or not, an instrument alone,
Each use reincarnate: from rack to floor, to pile bottom,
Holding up the Sysyphusian mountain of my discontented future.