Saturated

The checkered cloth is limp and gray,

it cannot push the damp away.

I try to dry the coffee cup,

but water only bubbles up.

The center has a frayed-out spot,

a tangled and decaying knot.

A slow explosion in the thread,

where all the cotton fibers bled.

It’s thin enough to see the light,

a gauze of failed and weary white.

It’s done with trying to be whole,

this tattered, soft, and useless soul.