A Dish Towel

In the kitchen, it slipped from my grip,

damp cotton flopping onto the floor.

Caught in a moment, mundane and stripped,

a reminder of chaos, a chore I abhor.

Faded checks blur in the corner of sight,

soaked with the remnants of dinner and life.

Each fold holds a story of warmth or of fight,

catching the weight of the daily strife.

I pick it up gently, folding it slow,

a small act of care in a world gone awry.

This dish towel, a witness, both silent and low,

bears the marks of our lives, and the mess of the sky.