It hung there gray and used

It hung there, gray and used,

a heap that could confuse

the eye. A simple thing,

but heavy, cold, unyielding.

I picked it up, that slab of wet,

a concrete memory, I bet,

of all the weight we carry 'round,

without a single, solid sound.

Just sodden terry, dense and deep,

the secrets that we try to keep.

It slumped within my aching hand,

a damp, persistent reprimand.