Washing off the dirt.
You can’t see because lint has formed a parade
on your punctured bosom.
Scratches can’t heal until hot water is pebbled
around the edges.
Stinging through the torrential palace
flooded by emotions from cuts that come alive.
Washing off that dirt.
Caked from decades of criminal oil soaking
what can’t be spoken, except when water runs.
Tears crisscross with wet cleanser adding more to rinse.
The Lightness from heaving lather creates a slippery slope.
You’re used to almost falling — always.
This could be the last time.
Washing off. The dirt.
Towels shed and it gets in your eye.
You stay in the darkness and stillness of one.
Alone and squeaking.
Ready for a nap in the carpet of disillusionment.
Wrapped tight and clean.
