Not thrown—that's what stays

Not thrown—that's what stays.

Not dropped in a hurry, not the haze

of someone running late. Placed.

Folded once against the base

of the toilet. One corner, damp.

I stood a moment under the lamp

that buzzed above the mirror. Two soaps

in the dish—one worn to a slope

of its original shape, almost

translucent. One still wrapped. I lost

a minute there. I washed my hands.

I went back out. The party stands

in my memory as fine:

the cheese, the conversation, the wine,

her face across the table, careful

and composed. I was grateful

to have been invited. Said so.

Drove home in the usual slow

way. I've been thinking about it since.

The towel. The soap. The evidence

of nothing I can name. I might

be reading it wrong. The lamp. The light

above the mirror. The soaps. The floor.

I drove home thinking about it more

than made sense.