Victimized Cloth

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.