Shower Poetry

I stood in the shower today,

watching the water run down my legs.

My feet look a little tan

against the white tub,

shiny and wet.

Water beads up on the polish on my toes,

shiny and wet.

The ring, sparkly pale green flower gem, on my second toe on my right foot,

shiny and wet.

It looks so good,

so shiny and wet.

I wish I had a camera, so I could show you...

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I shaved. Cut myself. Wondered why am I shaving? shaving my legs from the ankle to the hip, for no one but me to notice. It is sad when you feel sexless, wrapped in all the other things you (mother, friend, student, teacher, writer, maid, cook, bottle washer) are. But this, I think, is worse. To stand in the shower feeling so lovely. Thinking that your feet, with the ring and the polish and the carefully pumiced soft heels, just a little brown... Thinking that they are so sexy, the way the water runs down. Visually so nice. But who is looking? Just you.

It is in this way that I am so misaligned with everything. Not just the shower moments but all moments. Filled with motive, lots of motive, but no opportunity. Where was the motive when I had the opportunity?