It's been there three days a sodden lump

It's been there three days, a sodden lump,

this towel, gray from floor-grime thump.

My toe finds it, cold and wet, a shock,

another chore I haven't tried to clock.

A stray dark hair, a coil, a tiny string,

it clings to cheap linoleum, a pathetic thing.

I bought it white, imagined pure, clean light,

now it's just proof of an untended night.

The mildew starts, a faint, sweet rot,

a silent judgment in this tiny spot.

I could just bend, pick it up, it's true,

but there's so much I'm not getting through.