New piece — first draft

The things I should be doing before I end the day at work are never the ones I end up doing.

SHOWER

Settling for a moment after the shower’s
been turned off with your shoulders against
the washcloth rail, hair dripping in the
sudden cold. The bathroom window is open
and the breeze is already drying you
before you ever pick up a towel —

tell yourself, maybe that’s how you’ll get through
the day, the week, the rest of your life: waiting to dry
after a deluge. Tell yourself that there are worse things
than living by recovering over and over again
from whatever just happened to you.
Tell yourself there are worse things than being affected.

If you could just get your back off this rail
and get out of the shower you might accomplish something
today. You could clean mildew and cobwebs.
You could eat something healthy for you. You could sleep
right, love well, feel well. If you could just get your back
off this rail and dry yourself off, you could even put on clean clothes.

On the street, maybe on the lawn, some bird’s singing the spring fling
to a background of mowers and children calling.
If you could just get your back off this rail, you could look out the window
and see what kind of bird, whose lawn, whose kids are out there.
You could if you were dry and clothed and able to form a wish.
You think about shaving, then remember: they keep all the razors locked up here.