What I Keep Stepping Over

Three days and the towel is still

on the floor by the toilet,

gone stiff at the corners where it dried wrong,

a gray waterline along the hem.

I step over it every morning.

The same small arc of the foot,

automatic, the way you adjust for a loose board

you've stopped meaning to fix.

One corner touching the toilet base.

The smell starting now—

that particular smell of fabric

that got wet and was left

to figure itself out.

She didn't make anything of leaving.

Just wasn't here by morning.

And the towel was,

and I almost picked it up today.

Almost.