The Final Duty of the Rug

The tattered stitching

Of curving edges.

A cloth undoes itself

On purpose,

For the countless feet

That crossed its fleeting expanse

Of bunched rings—

Rainbow threads,

Colors that do not clash,

But join hands

In a harmonious circle

Of swaying serenity!

The rug undoes itself

Because it has lived on that floor

For many decades,

And is wise,

And has felt all sorts of urgent tromping,

And the light sneaking footfall of the curious,

And the euphoric prancing of the mirthful dancing duos

(And trios and quartets for that matter).

And it has come time to unwind,

To reverse the patterns of which it is comprised,

And to sink into the floor boards below it

As dust.

To make room

For a new rug.