Nothing Left to Absorb

I dried a glass with it this morning.

The glass came out wetter than it went in.

I held it to the light above the stove—

still streaked, the towel too thin

and smooth to pull the water off of anything.

The stripe has gone to almost nothing now—

a faint pink on a field of worn-out white

that's been through so many cycles. How

it's still here I don't know.

The person who brought it is not.

The towel's been here longer than the lease,

longer than anything I've got

a name attached to in this apartment.

I bought new ones in October.

They're in the cabinet, in the bag.

October's over.