Ties in the Back

The cheap towels, stacked in a bright aisle,

pulled me back, a sudden scratch.

That rough weave, meant to beguile

no one, just a brief, thin patch.

I remember the paper crinkle of it,

the way it gaped, a constant draft

on my spine, a ridiculous fit.

Like a child's art, poorly staffed.

It was always open, that back seam,

leaving a raw, cold streak.

No privacy, just a half-formed dream

of dignity, flimsy and weak.

And the knot, just a quick twist of string,

holding little, letting go.

How little cloth a body can bring

to a moment, a sudden, naked show.