My Shower was Really Cold

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,

I shiver.


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.

Warm again,

until I go outside to be showered

by the snowstorm that brews,

ready to fall.


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