Saturation

The curtain was shy of the tile again,

leaving a lake for the rug to drink.

I lift the navy towel from the floor,

doubled over by the pull of the water.

It’s heavy as a sleeping dog,

smelling of mildew and cheap soap.

I carry it like a mistake I’m tired of holding

and drop it into the hamper.

It makes a cold, wet slap against the plastic,

a sound that stays in the room

long after I’ve turned out the light.