Angry Towel

The towel glared at the second story window, 

Waiting for my face to appear, 

Waiting to show me its anger

Wagging its soggy tail 

in the drizzly morning breeze. 

It shivered all night on the clothesline

While I slept between

soft

dry

sheets.

Quetzalcoatl, Lord of the Dawn, 

Brightened the room

with bright pastels,

Making my eyes smile

as I yawned, breathing in

the new morning.

My feet carried me outside

to greet the morning mist. 

She blew me a dewy kiss 

As she swished a breeze 

to tickled the perpetual climbing rose bush

into giggling. 

The tear soaked towel perched on the clothesline

Waiting impatiently for me to walk by.

It leapt from the line 

And doused me without asking permission. 

“You neglected to address my complaint, 

Or even say hello,” it hissed. 

Sadness jumped onto a breeze

And pounced on me

Completely pushing out

every

sliver

of intent

I had

to do

anything.

"Tis my turn

To play my game,

My way,” the towel blustered.

“Tis time for you

to practice being in pain.

I didn’t want your soggy tears

that sting my fur with death.”

“BUT MY SON IS DEAD,” I cried.

The towel fluttered its tongue at me.

“I refuse to sing a dirge for your son. 

His hands never touched me

Never folded me

And never, ever caressed me.

I didn’t want your soggy tears

that sting my fur with death. 

We are here and he is not,

Nor will he ever be.

“Tis time for you

to practice being in pain.”

 I winced

And wished my tears would pour 

And take the sadness with them.

The dewy mist licked my face 

Contributing the liquid for my tears.

I held the towel in my hands and cried,

“Nor did I

want my soggy tears

to sting your fur with death.”