Anxiety Is the Color Pink
A towel that is white is useful
and can clean and be cleaned.
A towel is most functional
in this form.
And suddenly a sock,
a sock that is red
is thrown into the wash
and now our white towel
is pink.
How the towel tossed and turned and
fought and squirmed about in that basin
with the sock, trying to squish
against the walls and avoid that
seeping, insidious, leaking red dye.
But it soaked in and became apart of the
towel, all the same.
entwined in its fibers,
pounded into its weaving
mercilessly soaking into its being.
Nothing is white for the towel anymore,
not bodies to dry or water to clean
it is pink all pink that spreads and separates
and the towel may no longer experience
white.
Our towel, once white is tinged,
singed, tainted, corrupted, violated.
It is not its whole self, a towel, that is,
it is an unclean rag that is tired and
worn out, frayed and stained.
Sure we can toss the towel in the wash,
douse its body in abrasive bleach to
try to wipe clean the slate and return
our towel to its most useful state.
But our towel will thin, and pill, and remain
just a little bit pink.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
