The Shower

The Shower

Showers show our allowances, the firmness
with which we rule our homes. For some, the tiles
and the white grout glow, spotless.
And nudity has purpose. This denial
of anything unclean cannot be healthy.
Sure, there's soap. And three green bottles
half-full of ooze, changing your hair into foamy
ribbons. A plastic razor, blades mottled
with freckles of rust. Look, my shower is not
a hospital, nor is it a temple.
Because of a vine-covered window and instantly hot
water, I tolerated my shower's trickle
for three years. Every house-guest hated
that shower, complained about the weak pressure.
I liked the water's ambling pace, its sedated,
flimsy touch. The throaty, filmy purr.