tub confessions

soapy islands in the tub gather where
my knob-knees peak
like glaciers in a powder scented sea
they remind me of the seasons
growing in number, growing chillier each round
since that afternoon in centennial park
since that night in the wooden chapel

and i agree with emiliana singing
i'd live this life again just to
see you once more before i die

for days at a time my eyes play this mirror game where
i swear i see you in strangers who
sit a row in front of me and a little to the right
while the violinist plays his concerto on
the mahogany stage by the steinway

or in the man who passes by the store window
where i am arranging flowers and chairs
and dresses and shoes

(i let myself hope that it's you)
and despite what i know i just stare and stare
and pretend, my heart beats to the ryhthm
of the piece in 6/8, of the pace of the steps
my eyes strain and fill up like tiny porcelain baths

where i find myself soaking my lonely autumn skin today
imagining that i live in a kind little house with
flower boxes by the cracked and worn shutters
instead of at the top of this mountain where
the thought of you lingers closer than my breath.