The Shower

arms crossed, shower water. groaning, grunting

grimace, snort and turn to face the stream.

the glass-block-window’d winter setting sun and steam.

a finger trailed along its ridge, resting head against the tile

sliding hands against your skin to see how you are made again

you are yourself and no one else can know

this life is passing fast and when you think you have it down

you don’t. you turn and look around and everything has blurred

receded, burned, obscured, returned. and not a single word

remains. the memories of a day, the rain, the sun, the urge to run.

a decade here, a decade there. you think ‘rehearse! rehearse!’, I must prepare.

with careful steps avoiding pits and traps, injuries and error

conflict, audits, accidents. 

a perfect go, a trial run with no mistakes. a ten of ten for when 

they open up the stage. and then, as water trickles off your knee

shivering in the shower from fifteen to forty-three,

it seems, you may have had enough. it’s time to go

to stop. to leave and start the show. to twist, and turn

the water off, the drops and drips, the skips and fits.

your naked childhood body now in pants, the force of gravity for half

a life, pulling on your cheeks, your balls, your hips, your hands.

and at your age you don’t know how to stand, have things

gone well, or ill, or good, or bad?

what consequences can you claim?

is it not now past time for something new?

for something wonderful and true? 

and real, without a trace of guilt or shame.

facing brave what might be left,

without a label, or a name.

reborn! another step out from the shower! 

and after just three quarters of an hour.

one admits to feeling old.

and anyway the water’s cold.