Wilpower at test by seven fifteen
Shower turned on, delivering drops of cold reminders
of our landlord’s incompetence. Water heater still broken,
the knob labeled H opened full,
delivers a cool mist that kisses my legs,
warns me of the chill to come.
Shower head tilted to one side, quizzically questions me
hesitancy to step into it’s spray.
I arch my back, scalp baptized by glacial rain.
Fingers freese as I work shampoo through my hair
Icicles trace my spine as I let my hair fall.
Back bent at an impossible angle,
Washing the sleep from my eyes with
a washcloth turned block of ice.
Soap that will barely lather on
my skin, bumpy like the
fragile skin of chicken, plucked raw.
I rinse my scalp a final time
eager to stop the steady stream
testing my devotion to being clean.
The bathmat welcomes my feet,
my towel now a warm blanket around me.
Hairdryer blows the cold from my locks,
stocking, socks, dress and a sweater.
until I go outside to be showered
by the snowstorm that brews,
ready to fall.