Register this gratitude for my own forgetfulness, my lackof attention, my stupidity for buttoning a short skirtthat hugs my waist tight and high to get a pedicure,for the awkward careful climb to the massage chair,back and shoulders hunched to shrinkthe length of my thighs, for the distressand shimmy down to extend the hem, as ifthat works; for the nail tech whose help I don't summon,not the one who will paint my toes, but the other girlwho happens to look up from her phone, eyesdart my way, doesn't ask me, but brings a bath towelfrom the back and unfolds and drapes it acrossand around my legs; yes, ode to the terrycloth,to the woven loops of thread, the rough fibersshe smooths and presses, the pat pat patof her hands to my knees for extra coverage and warmth;yes, indeed, ode to this fabric relief from barenessbefore she returns to respite, but really, odeode ode to one woman's instinctive aimto quietly resolve the soundless discomfortsquirming in the body of another
Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad (Fri,) studied this question.