At 5 a.m. I stand in the shower
breathing steam, soaping the smelly
parts.
At head level, above my right
shoulder,
a small rectangular window
on the flip-side of which the winter
wind
drags crystal-rich sub-zero air moaning
through the frosted boughs of ragged pines.
As I rinse the Head and Shoulders
from my thinning hair
I pee into the draining suds water,
saving a flush.
When I twist the hot and cold to cut
the flow,
Feather the Wonder Cat cries once
outside the stall.
She’s been waiting there to lick my
legs
as I dry my hair and upper body,
employing
my one, semi-crusty, aqua bath towel –
a ritual.
The shower was short. The bathroom is
chilly.
Yet these simple acts, choreographed by
long repetition
and demonstrative of the Will to
Hygiene,
disclose as well a stoic assent, on
this day, at this hour,
to carry it forward one more time -- with
Feather’s approval.
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