Towels

by Samuel Hazo

What purpose have they but to rub
skin dry by being drawn behind
the back two-handed down
the showered spine or fluffed
between the thighs and elsewhere?
Yardgoods lack what towels
proffer in sheer, plump tuft.
Wadded after use and flung
in hampers to be washed, they clump
like the tired laundry of men
who sweat for a living.
Spun dry
or spreadeagled to the sun,
they teach us what renewal means.
Touch them when they're stacked or racked,
and what you're touching is abundance
in waiting.
Imprinted with the names
of Hilton or the Ritz, they daub
with equal deft the brows
of bandits or the breasts of queens.
What else did Pilate reach for
when he washed his hands of Christ
before the multitudes?
Even
when retired to the afterlife of rags,
they still can buff the grills
of Chryslers, Fallingwater's windows
or important shoes.
However
small, it seems they have
their part to play.
But then,
en route from use to uselessness,
it's no small asset ever
to be always good at something.

- by Samuel Hazo from The Song of the Horse. © Autumn House Press, 2008