Sunday

I gather the long hairs

from around the bath

with the tips of my fingers. 

The aftermath of shower prayers

hangs between the misted screen

and wet tiles.  Maybe the prayers will help. 

The performance in my head eclipses all,

filling every corner of consciousness

with vocal, fills and solos,

keyboard chords, rests and cadences

in endless refrains; every measure

faithful to its moment. 

I rinse the sink, return damp bottles

to their shelves and lift crumpled

nightclothes and discarded underwear

from the floor.  As I snap the bolt back

and open the door, the day ingresses. 

Sunday. 

I switch off the light.