Bath Water

She takes the laughter, the smiles, the drinks and celebrations, wads them all up and stuffs them into the hole. She changes the dressing when the patch wears too thin. The hugs and kisses, all the well wishes, stay a moment, and then slide off. The warm feelings, like bath water, turn cold, until she’s forced out. She hopes for change, but hope is a rug waiting to be pulled out, and change is hurt changing its shirt. You smile to be polite, but the elastic string on your mask is getting all stretched out. The ice in your glass shifts as your mind wanders. She waves and your heart flutters…as she blows the man behind you a kiss.