A private message
borders in a stretching square
of rounded edge, and bubbles up
to fill the tub. I hopped in nude
(as was my wont), and filled to edge.
Now I can't move. I'm sick of wetness
on the tile. I don't know why, I've all
clean towels to hand, but somehow
sopping doesn't satisfy in such
a while. Let's bask
in this, all just
poured out from
spouts as unselfconsciousness
as metal, hollow downward hooks
all doubt, dissolved insensibly.
Dispensing steamy letters sent
- unscented salts and oils are set
quite liberally aside, unopened and
unspent. It's just for ambiance. This
Oz I wizard in needs no such ooze.
Just praps a squat vermilion-scented
candle lit to drip its wooing wax
down to both sides of this here
tub. It's soaking in, I figure
as I wrinkle in museum mode. I
contemplate
resemblance
in peccadilloes - minor sin
of vanity, that! Oohs and ahs
and never
overcompensates. Deliberately
and likewise, otherwise
at least, I seem to have just wait
just wait for it - a sense
of brim, and levee's breaking point
to settle in and bask in this. My aching
joint. The ambiance I do anoint. The true
tub soak. It's all we civilized types ask!
The luxury of haitch to O. In steamy
temperament, soaked fast.
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
but aren't they all random?
Friday, August 21, 2020
bubble bath
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