MORNING SHOWER
I have bent my hand
into the shape of a
chewed orange slice, or
a telephone cord curl,
just so that the droplets
of tap water draining
from the showerhead
roll down and appear
to pool from the very
tips of my fingers.
I am staring for
too long, and soap
has started to fall into
my eyes. I’m trying
to catch the bits of
life we let slip
through the cracks.
Like in the law quad,
how symmetrical gothic
arches are adorned by
gargoyles
jutting their tongues
at each passerby.
Or the child today
sitting in the greenery,
with her jam stained
hand stolen into one
pocket of a yellow
raincoat, the Morton
Salt kind, and making
the same gargoyle
face right back! And
although she did not
win that tongue-out
staring contest, she
gave the stone creatures
a run for their stone
money.
.
This is a miracle.
No shooting stars
or runaway eyelashes.
This is it! All
this living makes
me think of the
time my lover and I
walked the banks
of Lake Michigan
and paused to gaze
at the cold pools below.
Oh, the warmth
as our stretched smiles
filled the air, cackling
at the sight of a lime
green electric scooter
hurled into the depths
below. You could just
make out the shape of
of its handlebars,
the rear wheel, and
we smushed our cheeks
together like two
rotten apples, laughing
at this work
of a mad man, or
an artist, or an architect
of human nature.
