I hang in front but I’m not a door, I catch your messes, spills, and more. In kitchens and shops, I’m often worn- What am I, tied on before the work is born?

In the end, I stand alone. Say my name and smile for the camera. Cut me and it stinks. The French would not survive without me.

In scattered realms I find my form, a picture's tale in pieces born. A fitting dance of edge and groove, together bound, I smoothly move.

Echoes speak where shadows follow, Rivers run, These things ring hollow, Makes some riddles hard to swallow... What's the phrase that rolls your eyes? For things passe with no surprise?

I’m a witch’s ride-share and the tool for your least favorite chore.