Oh, sweet shower. My retreat, my refuge. Drowning out the incessant complaints, the continual queries. They stop at your doors, my protector from punks. There is so much you give me. So much more than simply time and a (very) little space.
You know me so well, you fresh fellow. The acrobatic contortions required to wash my hair without knocking out the plastic doors have given me new flexibility, brought so much awareness. And I've never experienced such intimacy with a shower, usually so stiffly standoffish, never reaching out, never touching, as I attend to my knees, my feet...
And as your spray of water refreshes my face, I quietly contemplate the horizon of death. Perhaps death by water heater. Crushed in this plastic coffin when the two hundred year old iron tresses finally succumb to the weight for which they were not designed to bare. Weakened by the last decades of heat and steam, unforeseen. Or perhaps electrocution as condensation covertly connects the flooded basin, along the walls, to the so conveniently located 22o V socket.
And passing through your plastic doors, through the baptismal waters that have flooded the bathroom floor, I'm new. The whole world is sparkling new.
For some reason, this post is dedicated to Pearl.