Does anyone else feel, she wondered,
Like a washcloth wrung within an inch of its life?
Like a running shoe, its insole black with sweat and impact?
Like the sponge that’s done one too many hand-washings?
Like that garbage bag after someone stuffed that one. Last. Thing. In?
Like the couch cushion, enduring flop after flop after flop?
Like that last scrap of soap melting into the soap dish?
Like a teabag on its third steep?
Like a pencil nub that deeply yearns for a sharpening?
Like a joke that tanked its punch line?
Like the hot-water heater after everyone has showered?
Ah well, she thought, as she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and geared herself up for the next day.