How It's Always Been

It's still bundled in the corner

the way it's always been,

half-in, half-out of the shower.

I'm at my parents' house

for the weekend and some things

don't change. The towel pattern

is different—they bought new ones—

but the abandonment is the same.

Water still dripping.

The corner curled up from the tile.

I could pick it up.

One motion. Done.

But I don't.

I stand there like I'm watching

a thing that's alive, like the towel

is going to teach me something

about the people who live here,

about the way we all just

let things lie there,

wet and patient,

waiting to mildew

or dry

or be noticed.

My mother walked past it this morning.

Didn't pick it up.

My father stepped over it

like it was part of the floor.

The towel is teaching us

how to live like this—

knowing the thing

and not doing anything about it.

I go to my room

and close the door.

The towel stays there.

The water keeps dripping.

I count how long before someone

actually picks it up.

Nobody does.