And the Time Is: Poems, 1958-2013

Towels

180 Towels 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. 181 But then, en route from use to uselessness, it’s no small asset ever to be always good at something. ...