Could this heat wipe me away
from yellow tiles and parquet floors

and doors I struggle to keep closed?
Could I be swept away entirely?

I watch water form rivers down
my belly, electric red streaks.

I stand strong under the barrage,
let the mounting pressure

hold me straight from within.
A hand—my own—reaches, twists

the bright chrome knob, releases the cool
burst. Water leaps from fingertips

held open, still reaching. From me drops
the day’s accumulation. Blue

rough longing and my odd ache
run down legs, swirl around toes

mix with other dirt and soil
soon sucked down.

You can read all the poems I’ve published on this blog by clicking here.

Alt Text: Monochrome photograph of a rain shower on a brick walkway. Image via Pixabay.

I write an email letter for my friends.

Writing Isn't Sexy: A letter about writing, life, and staying sane. (Really.)

And subscribers get a free e-copy of my novella Nice Wheels, just because I like you.

You have Successfully Subscribed!