I remember colored toilet paper,
pale pink sheets fluttering
into the toilet bowl, genteelly
staining the Nashua River red.
In some homes, they matched
the toilet bowl, sink, tub, tiles,
even towels and shower curtains.
But no woman
in my family was the slender
woman in the pink nightgown,
perfumed curls as soft as Charmin.
None of us lived in the ranch houses
curled around cul-de-sacs
on the other end of town.
We lived in older homes
where not much matched,
especially toilet paper.
One day, more recently than I’d realized,
colored toilet paper disappeared.
I don’t recall seeing pink paper,
even at Smitty’s or Marsh;
I don’t recall seeing
sheets that tainted groundwater
and matched nothing in my life.