“Hang the fucking flannel up!”
I whisper in a hoarse cry,
The words break free like
Adultrous men in black,
Up to no good.
I see my snarl in the bathroom mirror.
Guilt at such pettiness
Makes me wince.
My friend has just been widowed,
Another's in remission,
And here I am screaming about flannels.
Good job I didn't really yell it out.
Yet, still I try to justify my fury.
It's a symptom.
A tip of an iceburg.
A metaphor.
Perhaps,
But I feel small.
I hang up the flannel,
Then decide to throw it
In the boil wash after all.
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