bubble bath

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.