Brushing my teeth, the mirror just stares,
Counting my teeth like a merchant their wares.
I see movement in the corner of my ocular,
Bigger than grains or stuff that’s molecular.
I crank my head just a hair to the right,
See a towel peg crawling down on the white.
It’s making its way in an orderly manner,
Creeping down the wall, that a tile-y day planner.
“Where might you be going? Hey Mr. Peg?
If you go a bit further you’ll reach my leg.
It’s not a good place to hang my towel,
Reaching the ground it might smell a bit foul.”
I’d never ever ever heard a peg talk before,
Its voice was, surprisingly, like that of my floor.
“I’m going southwards on my vacation,
To see this magical, exotical nation.
I heard it’s warm and there’s fauna in there,
Lint on the ground and flies in the air.
Holding your towel is a pretty tough job,
I don’t get to move like a door or a knob.
I really need this so I don’t start dropping,
Anything of yours that might then be sopping.”
A towel peg having some R and R?
That’s pretty odd but he’s not going far.
I guess it helps me to keep him in line,
“A seven day holiday? Make it nine
Please have fun and come back rested,
Let’s hope your way is not too congested”
I watched it slide very slowly on the wall,
Do other peoples’ stuff do this at all?