The Brush
THE BRUSH
I stand in my shower covered with soap.
I rinse off alone. I feel out of phase.
I see the brush hanging there by its rope.
Unused it has hung for many long days.
Used by Dianne, caressing her body.
It gave pleasure while cleaning her back.
The brush explored, sensual not bawdy.
Its use she applied with love and a knack.
I live my life much like that of the brush.
No longer do I caress her with love.
Nor give her pleasure, making her blush.
For now she looks upon us from above.
Today all alone, we both try to cope.
I covered with soap, the brush on its rope.
Copyright © Robert Fincham | Year Posted 2014
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