You have served us well, friend—
Has it been just a week since we tore your
End from a smear of dried adhesive?
(The conception of birth is always far grittier, is it not?)
And given your proud acceptance of thin sheets,
This week’s progress is no small feat. But listen,
Big picture time—we know you better than you think,
As confidants, here we may freely inquire:
Who needs perforations, sponge technology
And thematic quilt weaves?
Yours are not the dainty one-stroke tasks—
Yours is a gritty, thankless, kamikazic role,
Devoid of any “rinse and reuse” redemption.
(In fact, you’re lucky if you make it
To the trash can without being worn clean through.)
And what’s that sound? Silence. Not a whisper of complaint—
Almost wish we didn’t have to put you in the
Crank arm dispenser now that you are slim enough to fit.
It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds—“crank arm dispenser”—no,
Just a touch more efficient and civilized than sticking a couple of fingers in,
And whirling you about before a stroke of careless, passive mutilation.
(Hmm, doubtless, that is not even the proper name
[For the device, I mean,]
But like you, it just works.)
Now in you go, and mind you
There will be a slight pinch as we feed you between the
Rollers above the tearing strip and close the door—
Now, that wasn’t so bad, hmm?
For you, this is more than tolerable.
After all, at least no one would dare use you to blow their nose—
Your coarse, tear-impervious reputation—
Your plain brown papery dignity is only for you
Not your cousin, wrapped around my mail