Poetry (Day 97): Washed Away


     Washed Away


I’m surprised I don’t write more
poems about showers.

Each night I step beneath
the warm spray, hoping
that inspiration will strike.

I read the shampoo label, or
the packaging for
the new soap, praying
that a word
will nudge me
towards a moment of elegy.

I examine the suds
as if the bulge of an
escaping sonnet or haiku
might form amidst the bubbles.
And as the dirt is washed away
I look to see if a new verse
has been tattooed upon my skin.

But, always, when I am done and dry
I return to my office
and stare at a screen
whiter than any bathroom tile.


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