August Poem 17

Pliny grabbed them,

And not hers.

They belonged to Stan

—Bar towels

—And projected from the touch.

 

Pliny had stepped down and spilled liquor

From the stage.

Now he stooped to clean.

This was the table in Stan’s

Dining room

Under the Jose Cuervo margarita

Salt tray.

 

Portia kept matching towels in pastels and

Earth tones,

But Pliny was having none of it.

At their age,

Wouldn’t they want to die in the same

Color towels?

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