Ode to Pit Stop Napkins
common white napkins
that melt on lips
in glove compartments
everywhere
food workers stuff wads
of them in to-go bags
enough to swab
a giant’s mouth
enough to wipe
dew from a mirror
oil from a dipstick—
droppings from a hot dog
enough to scoop up
dead bugs
hold a hundred
scribbled poems
blot bloody noses
dab tears
pit stop napkins
ready to spring forth
now or around
the bend
power in
numbers
fragile as
gossamer wings
—Carol Shank
This article appears in November 2016.
