From the hook a damp flap

From the hook, a damp flap.

Familiar blue stripe,

worn soft, almost a scrap.

It's seen some grime, some gripe.

Wipe the counter, again.

Circular motion, slow.

And there it is, that deep-set stain,

tomato, from a long ago.

A ghost of pasta, or a spill,

it never quite lets go.

Washed a hundred times, still, still,

a patch of crimson, low.

It takes it all, the grease, the steam,

the accidental splash.

Just hangs there, like a silent dream,

then dries, a faded slash.

And waits for the next mess.