Bath

Pressure’s good round here.
Twin cataracts charge the tub
With churned water into which
I immerse with sufficient pain
To sometimes feel strangely cold.

My knees are sudded islands,
Shelving steeply to one side
And more gently on the other
Toward my member, bobbing,
Like an exhausted walrus.

My toes as hands manipulate
The chrome with rare deftness
Ensuring an intermittent douse
Of heat into which is melted the
The aggregations of the day.

In thoughtless regression I sink
A small duck, repeatedly,
Enjoy it bursting on the surface,
Or submerge and lie, like Ophelia,
Suspended from expectation.

This is not about being clean
But an ancient homage to the Self –
Too wet to hold the phone,
Too naked to entertain a guest,
Legitimately and guiltlessly lolling.

Until the hot becomes the coolish
And wisely I nip out and onward,
Or unwisely continue to lie
And sulk, at the evanescence
Of pleasure, the punity of time.