Here we go again,
thought a white blanket
as Rembrandt draped the fraying
fabric over one arm of a nude
man seated on the ground
with one leg extended.
Must I really endure this?
the throw sighed, rustling, remembering
the last time van Rijn’s grubby
fingers took care to wrap her
(yes, the blanket is female)
snug around the waist
of a mop-headed model
working for his next meal.
Now for the coup de grace,
she moaned, skidding across splinters,
catching the wind, knotting on a wrist,
anything to avoid No Man’s Land
(No Female Blanket’s Land, rather)
under the young man’s behind.
Why weren’t I sold
to a baker, cobbler, or dog breeder?
Better to suffer
from errant breadcrumbs,
daubs of shoe polish,
and leftover curls
from Fluffy’s winter coat
than risk the indignity
of a naked, unbathed human’s
body odor, sweat, and flatulence.