Archive for the ‘Andrew M. Feathers’ Category

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

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