Hidden ritual

I fold the towel crooked,

fingers folding just off-center,

a crease that never quite aligns.

No one watches the small shift

of fabric, the quiet bend of cloth

that marks my morning.

It’s a pattern, unseen,

a silent rhythm no one claims.

I pause, catch the crease,

correct it halfway,

then leave it flawed,

a secret stubbornness

hidden in the crease.

No eyes but mine

know the way the towel waits,

a crooked calm behind the bathroom door.