In the shower, where words are pooled at my feet
like those greasy corner curb puddles by the driveway
not from rain,
but from whoever up the street decided it was a great idea
to run their hose.
The leaves, the dog piss, the sticks
and run off from their driveway
all just sitting there in the 90 degree angle
Just like my shower.
Okay, not quite just like my shower,
but when I looked down at the drain, I knew there was a hair clog
and I felt my throat tighten in disgust.
Standing there, looking down at my feet,
straight into the drain,
There’s probably a poem in this,
probably a few words in that
more than likely I’ll forget all of this the moment I start to towel dry my hair and realize I cut myself shaving.
Too many adjectives
Far too many circles of comparison
What was it that he said to me-
always on the cusp of sadness? No, he didn’t use cusp. Some other S word
I sip my coffee in the bathroom
while I pencil in my eyebrows
(the left one is thinner and much to my horror, grayer).
Something something sadness.
Was it that I’d burst with sad? Drown with sad? Die sad?
I’m not really that sad.
There is a wild, numbing madness swimming about in my gut y’know.
Always nicely put away:
pressed, buttoned and folded.
Waiting to be ripped from the drawer,
shaken out vigorously
and maybe worn out on a night when we throw caution to the wind
(and by caution to the wind, maybe what I’m saying here is I drink two bottles of wine on a Tuesday night and crawl off the couch only to fall asleep upstairs fully clothed).
For a moment, I stared back at myself in the mirror
and thought absolutely nothing
I was even aware of that-
“you aren’t thinking. not right now. Nope,”
until the dryer dinged
and the game resumed.