My dad dug a maze at Glastonbury; he was twenty two.
I’m feeling kind of blue, like the Miles Davis poster in his bathroom
—not that I knew who that was.
There was a towel on the rail just like one we had at home:
maroon with white flowers, or white with maroon
—it depended which side you looked from.
I was thirteen. We’d never met. But we had matching towels.
So. It must be true.
I think this is the centre.
It’s hard to know—I can’t see that far ahead.
But next week we’ll make a plan,
and then we’ll have to stick to it.
When the girls start going back and forth,
I bet they’d like to see
some familiar towels.