As disgusting as it may seem
my bath still holds the water
in which we bathed all those years ago.
I will admit that it has left a thick film on it
and the dead skin left on the rim of the bath
could almost be alive again,
small animals have even found a home there
but it is a part of the house now
I just cannot pull the plug.
And somehow, after all these wave-less nights,
the roses are still living and bobbing
like lifebuoys on the grimy surface
as if markers of our sex.
Every nowandthen
in those mindless moments we all have
when we slink off into our pasts
and allow ourselves to go frivolously free,
I bathe in the scum of our lives
and when the cold soaks through my clothes
I play with the chain that could suck it all away
but I just cannot pull the plug.
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