Marooned

It was draped, like an old regret,

across the chair back in her kitchen,

that faded thing, thin in spots.

Maroon, or what was left of it.

Not quite purple, not brown enough,

just this exhausted color

where a thousand hands had rubbed,

or a child's cheek had pressed hard.

It was ours once, I think,

or one just like it. A blanket

that saw everything, said nothing,

now just hanging there, a silent flag.