Old Towels

“A young ballplayer once dried
his hands on me,” says a pale
grey towel, the one with the red
wine stain that would not wash out.

“I was once a pretty lime green,
like the tile through the chlorine
of the fresh swimming pool
where I used to lounge
on a lemony table of iced tea.”

“The hands that reach for us
have grown effete, too.
Their grab and rub and snap
lack a former vigor.”

The old towels hang whipped and frayed,
lopsided and wrinkled, once plush nap
now mashed bald and threadbare.
The old towels dangle on bent nails
in a dank garage, reduced to rags.