The Hot Water Ran Out When We Were Having A Sexy Shower

Lathered Rodins, we clattered back
the sliding door, stumbled blindly
from the cubicle, arms out like Romero zombies,
eyes scrunched to walnuts,
patting the walls for texture:
mastic, tiling and, finally, Turkish cotton.

"It's a real pea-souper," you yelled,
wincing in the mist.
Translucent finger tips,
eyes enflamed
and shampoo in our hair,
we dared to risk
the two-landing dash:
Maria was standing
on the stairs looking healthy.
She takes baths daily
and believes in Western politics.
The bathroom door was smoking
like a New York drain.

Drying in the wind
of your flung-back bay windows,
we shivered and giggled,
pulled shapes for the buses
while, through the wall,
Maria was listening to Blur.