It ends with a night custodian
Shaking his head at another wet floor
In the complex's public restroom.
Somewhere in the middle,
A mother stands lookout,
Puffing worthless smoke signals
Into the evening air.
It begins with her teenage son
Filling a tupperware bowl
With warm water from a sink—
Naked—
He sulks over to the auxiliary drain
In front of the empty stalls,
Takes a preparatory breath,
And douses himself from head to toe.
The instant warmth is temporary
So the soap lather must happen fast.
Sudsed up, he returns to the sink,
Sandals sloshing on the soaked tile.
He refills and rinses off the residue
Where the cleansing began
(Sometimes once, sometimes twice).
He snatches his towel, hanging
Over the stall door, and wipes away
The teardrops of water
From his too tired body.
Lights out nears in the office upstairs.
2 comments:
When you can't think of anything to write, write what you know. Unfortunately, I know this too well.
A. that sucks.
B. I think it's awesome how you are able to write poems that are equal parts poetry and prose. I mean this is essentially a story, but it's poetic and beautiful and depressing all at the same time. The smoke signal line is so awesome. I think that it highlights the depression of the whole affair. Very sharp.
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