A Shred of Consolation
The diseased pink disaster of a robe,
probably bought for pennies
at the overstuffed Salvation Army
on the day its colored tag
offered an additional fifty percent off,
quickly became crumbling cotton candy,
matted down, worn away, tattered seams,
exposing the microscopic, polyester mesh
that held the whole blasted thing together
in one piece.
Nevermind the velour peach gown,
fresh with department store tags,
hanging abandoned on the bathroom hook,
adorning the seeping pipes and porcelain.
No, the one covered with short, wiry, root-exposed hairs,
each one shed as a martyr for her growing negligence,
would do until the inconvenience far outweighed the function.
Just as it willingly absorbed the breathless musk of mildew,
the overlooked bottom corner would soak up
the flood on the carpet while she dozed nightly on the couch.
I wonder if she ever made the switch to the newer robe or if she's still wearing cotton candy tatters.