By Andrew M. Feathers
his bath towel hanging on its rack, limp
& bone dry & dusty like a summer
undershirt out of that attic box
marked “warm weather clothes”
he wants to (has to) get it wet, really
wet with breathing sweat, or wash-water
whatever just wet & twisted up stiff &
whipping it, rat-tailing it ‘til it snaps
like an empty mouse-trap
like a rubber band the full length of his
arm: FWAP! SNAP! in the kitchen
in the back there right now, in front
of the restaurant manager & chefs & hot
cast iron skillets & stoves just
SNAP! his swinging, soggy, wound-tight
towel, off the waitress’ black curve-
cupping dress-casual work pants, in the back,
maybe in the walk-in cooler or something,
someplace ballsy where he is
reminded he’s there, guts & wetness
& blood & pumping through him
like a fresh pot of red java, warm
enough to hold & warm enough to drink
Clutching at Straws 