Brittle Grip

The towel was heavy with the morning sleet,

a frozen slab of cotton, gray and dead.

I tried to pin the corner, make it neat,

but heard a sharp and plastic snap instead.

The spring went flying in the yellow weeds,

the hinge gave up its hold on winter air.

It’s funny how a cheap obsession feeds

on everything we try to fix or spare.

Now jagged orange teeth grip on the wire,

a tiny bite of something gone to waste.

I left the laundry like a funeral pyre

and went back in to find a different haste.