The Lost Art of Bathing

"I don't have time for a bath."
I know what you'll say.
I have thousands of e-mails
That I should file, too.

Yet I turn on the water
(heated by the sun),
brush my teeth and take my pill,
while I think of what to wear.

A bath makes every day
go so much better.
So I allow myself this
little bit of indulgence.

I anticipate it eagerly.

By now it is full enough
for me to climb in.
(I know you have your own tub,
that you almost never use.)

My knees loom incredibly.
I look at my toes
and remind myself to call
to get them a pedicure.

Tomorrow, when I lie here,
they will be the same,
half-polished from the last time
my grown daughter painted them.

I think happily of her visit.

It is surprisingly hard
to paint my toenails
these days--was it easy once?
(I think perhaps not for me.)

There is a round metal piece
in the bathtub's end,
where water would siphon off
if I had filled it too full.

It is a small blurry mirror.
where I say hello
to parts of me I rarely see.
I vow to exercise more.

I will reduce that soft lump of belly!

I admire the saggy breasts
that did their job well
years ago, reminding me
who I was then and am now.

I shampoo my hair (sometimes)
and condition it.
Then I've been known to lose track.
Did I start to wash my arms?

I put the soap on my face;
and rinsed it away.
But then how far did I get?
I didn't do my back yet.

I do not linger long.

A few minutes in the tub
calms me thoroughly,
washing off the garden dirt,
cleaning bug bites and scratches.

You should try it, too!