My Sad Poems

Shower

Droplets,

  Droplets,

    Droplets,

      Dripping

        D

          o

            w

               n

Drenched and drumming.

Patiently predicting and preserving the past times of the people on this planet.

Somber sovereignty slowly slipping skyward

Higher and higher in the form of heartless heat.

Shower steam stings sockets but still scrubs us sparkling,

Sterile,

Spotless.

How and why do we cry after continuously cancelling countless corners of clocked off days to cry on the cold floor of a tub thinking it will cleanse us like the water
drip,

 

drip,

 

  dripping

from the shower head onto peeling paint?

The cold felt so refreshing years ago when Fridays were fun and fantastically fast, flinging friends every which way on winded weekends where up was down and down was up and there was no numbing nonsense to trifle with our tender, teenage lives.

I want to go back...

But for now, I'll just take a shower.