The Old Sweatshirt Speaks

by Carol Townsend

Do not fault the ancient Whirlpool
washer for my loss of hue. The blame

for my dinginess lies with you, oh,
Beloved One, who dribbles pea soup,

maple syrup, chocolate milk down
my front, which leads to rough scrub–

bing by that wife of yours, from whom
you must do more to protect me, my

biggest fear being that when you are
not looking, she will bury me at the

bottom of the garbage tote, or worse
yet, cut me up for dust rags, the ultimate

humiliation. Either way, I will pass
into ignominy. Yet, I forgive you, Loyal

Buddy, because I do not know which
of us keeps the other warm during

these cold nights when you wear me
to bed. And thanks for losing weight,

which makes me stretch less, perhaps
adding years to my life. Who knows

what I would do without you, Dear
Friend, especially with your wife giving

me the old side–eye while holding
in her hands a sharp pair of scissors.