They serve no purpose but to be drawn behind your back
two-handed down a showered spine,
or fluffed over your shoulders.
Other fabrics lack what towels have in sheer plump tuft.
Wadded up after use and flung
in hampers to be washed
they clump like tired laundry of men who sweat for a living.
Spun dry, or spread in the sun
they teach us what renewal means.
Touch them when they're stacked
and you're touching abundance in waiting.
Imprinted with the names of hotels,
they wipe the faces of robbers and royalty.
What else did Pilate reach for after he washed his hands before the multitudes?
Even when retired to the afterlife of rags,
they still shine the grills of cars, clean windows and polish shoes.
However small they might be, they always have a part to play--
En route from use to uselessness
it is no small thing
to always be good at something.
With apologies to "Towels" by Samuel Hazo from The Song of the Horse, 2008
