A Cloth Most Perfect

Come all,

and let me tell you a fantastic tale,

of a treasure unimaginable.

A tale of a subject most perfect,

around an item most ordinary.

It drapes over the oven rack.

Fibers white and black,

a pattern most mundane.

The humble dishcloth works hardest of all.

A loyal workhorse,

receiving not the praise nor songs it deserves.

As if it were imbued with you.

Unwaveringly, it hangs there day after day,

steadfast, night after night,

just the way you like it.

After it cleans every spill,

of pasta sauce

and red wine,

which dot the countertop after we stumble,

dancing under the kitchen lights,

as if they’re the stars over Paris.

After you clean the dishes

you told me to do earlier,

with a coy smile on your face.

When I’m home,

and the dishcloth soldiers through,

cleaning every clumsy mess of mine.

I place it on the counter,

just for a second.

And I contemplate it,

fibers white and black,

a pattern most mundane,

so ordinary a thing.

And I fold it over the oven rack,

just the way you like it,

and I think of us,

and how fortunate I am to cherish someone so

Exceptionally Extraordinary.