Tropism
Sure, we could raise another rack
to slacken territorial strife,
but I’d probably climb the wall
to paw and swipe laundered veils.
So awfully close, they rub me wrong.
To mop my face, from sink I pivot,
grope for bedraggled cloth
that droops on brassy hook
splintering closed door’s back.
Beard’s droplets fleck tiles
I smudge with sneaker tracks.
Get fussed at.
If, again, I flout taboo,
will telltale wet spots
dry before discovery?
I swill fumes her shower brewed,
snuffle patchouli-laden tufts
that stroked her nape, under arm, along ribs.
I nuzzle where cocomangos lifted,
flopped, and Ivory sudsed pink crease
parting dark brown, kinky curls.
When furtive scrub gets caught,
Arch Priestess of Immaculate Bath scolds:
“Dang! How many times must I tell you?
It’s un-hy-gienic! Use your own!”
(No matter that I have kept my vow
never to wipe between my cheeks and toes.)
This sultry August morning,
after Lady Sanitation left for work,
royal blue cotton towel airs
above the beaming porcelain tub.
I grab, undrape, and bunch it,
crotch of fingers splayed upon my snout,
odyssey into mimosa’s mist,
take its vapors,
atomized by Calypso’s potion.