ODE TO A SHOWER
by Steven S. Billings
How oft have I despised you,
Thought you wretched in necessity,
Meager means for mundane motives,
Sanitary separation of self from soil,
Filth from flesh,
To make one more tolerable to himself
And his compatriots.
What measure of my life have I bequeathed thee?
A dozen minutes of the clock?
Ten if I could manage?
And with what temerity did I berate thee
For thine imbalance,
Now too hot, now too cold,
Never behaving as one might expect.
Ah, but today your glistening fingers
Cradled my head like a mother,
And I crawled into your lap and suckled the world away.
And you kissed away the aches and bruises,
You caressed my stressed limbs,
And I became one decompressed
From the pressures that beguiled me.
It may well be that upon the morrow
I shall once again curse my need of you
And the imposition you impress upon my day.
But for now, for this time, I shall praise thee,
Thou fountainhead of glory,
And extol upon thy virtues
To all the world.