The last useful thing

It hung there, stiff and worn,

a map of spills and grease.

Its faded plaid, badly torn,

offering no more peace.

Just stains that wouldn't lift,

a color dimmed with time.

No longer a small, soft gift,

past its working prime.

Another thing used up, then cast,

its purpose utterly done.

A threadbare life, built to last,

finally, unspun.