It’s supposed to be a transformative experience, of sorts
(if others can be believed)
The hot water logically washes away the dirt
Slick frothing bubbles lend an assist
Droplets falling on tile like bursting static
What feeds others’ renewal leaves me frantic and exhausted
Sometimes crying desperately through the torrented rivulets already running down my face
That humid box is where the worst of it comes
Thoughts like arrows, the only time they fly fast and true
New and old and present slamming together as they rush and scurry to find purchase in my floral foam brain
Distractions be damned, those spiteful, single-tasked archers
I’ve yet to find an activity conducive to a calm disposition but
The thunk of my expansive forehead on withered wet stone urges me to find purchase in the next