The Oily Rag by Dennis Held

gets blamed for everything but
the oily rag wasn’t always oily:
someone must have spilled the oil.

gets blamed for everything but
the oily rag wasn’t always oily:
someone must have spilled the oil.

Someone found a rag.
A rag that wasn’t yet oily.
Maybe the only dry rag.

And about that combustion:
anything but spontaneous,
and it’s “rags,” okay, “oily rags,”
not “rag.” Somebody always
puts them in a pile. Always a pile
of oily rags gets things started.

A corner or closet is often mentioned.

You’re probably feeling a little
oily, too, perhaps a little ragged.

I understand. We understand.
Come over here, come to the corner.

Come into the pile. Feel that?
Nice and warm, isn’t it?

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Dennis Held lives in Spokane, Washington. He has published two books of poetry: Betting on the Night and Ourself.