Sonia Walker Poet Prose

Two-Ply

Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink
rolls and sings to the touch 
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats 
on hard covers all in the name of 
modern convenience which is a change 
from old catalog sheets housed in 
quarter-moon outhouses 
behind homesteads.

Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home, 
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white, skinny two-ply which sits on the 
bottom shelf looking forlorn because of 
Its unscented homeliness.

Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep, dark sewers waiting 
to be processed in the jaws of the 
sewage treatment plants which do not 
discriminate against the bland,
anorexic and hard-to-the-touch.

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