The Bath
The Bath
My mother arrives
Letting in briefly
the dim Cleveland sun.
Her fingers are red-raw.
Without listening
I know my job
And I get the worn pliers
Landlord-loaned
To turn on the bath.
My brother stands
Jittery and exposed
While the water runs too hot
Over his feet.
He sits without warning,
Used to the pain.
He is clean.
I put a towel around him.
After the water has drained
We listen carefully,
My brother’s face
Gleefully bright.
There it is!
There is the clucking rasp
Of mother’s snore,
Measured yet unpredictable sounds.
We cling to them
In muted joy.
Copyright © Douglas Brown | Year Posted 2017
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