But not the interminably hopeless daddy longlegs
some say cellar spiders also know as the cranefly
lurking amidst the shower curtain then
flapping wildly all around my hat
just not first thing on
a Monday morning when stark staring
and uncoffeed thus it must
be duly despatched with an implement
humanely and meanwhile the water's
spraying in all directions
Later on leaving my nosy neighbour beckons
from her window and announces
there's a wet patch on the outside wall
you must have a leaky bath
you'll want to get that sorted and
I'm already late and it's the dullest
blanket grey dullest cold beans for breakfast
not that you have time for it
dead nothing morning and I wish you the best of
luck with the rest of it
It's three o'clock in the morning,
and I'm sitting here on the bathroom floor,
reliving that day—
reliving your death.
If only crying could ease the pain...
maybe I could live my life again.
But instead,
I close my eyes and hear my voice
blubbering to 911.
Dad is at work—he's safe.
I try to call Jaime,
but he hangs up
because I can't speak.
I'm trying to say you're dead
and Jacob's been shot,
but all that comes out
are tears and snot.
I think about Javier and Mom,
still outside,
still in danger,
unsure if they’re surviving
or joining you.
I'm trying—
trying to be calm,
to be collected,
but I hear each gunshot
as if it just happened.
I open my eyes
and look around.
I'm not at Mom and Dad's house.
I'm two hours away,
at my new place
where no one knows our story,
where no one knows about *that day*.
I should be happy.
I should take each moment
and make it great—
that’s what you would say to do.
But instead,
I’m here,
sitting on the bathroom floor,
wishing I could escape.
Bathroom Mirror
I stare into the mirror
my hand pauses
double-edged razor suspended in air.
I see my face, and
see what others see
or do I really.
They see my face as it is
while I see what it hides
a mask that covers much.
I can see the seventy years plus
of grief and laughter
pain and pleasure.
I can see the face others see
but I can also see the face
only I can see.
There's a window in my bathroom.
I catch myself looking out of it
every day
every night
every hour
I see them all
parading around, full of joy
of hope
of meaning
I scan their faces for acknowledgement
hoping the light left in my eyes is still enough.
But they never peer upwards
instead they march forwards
their gazes transfixed on the day or night ahead
And I am left in the dark
waiting for new faces to reappear.
the bathroom toilet is gurgling
it sounds like it has the hiccups
a non-melodic, annoying, grating sound
my husband has shown me several times how to stop it
he can lightly touch the handle and it stops
I can lightly touch it eight times before it stops
annoyed by this too, I choose to listen to it
wishing we had the old toilets that did not make noise
Your hand taps on my arm
then points towards the door
now you have decided
that I can't work anymore
Logging on way too early
I'm due a break for sure
especially for someone
I don't want to ignore
You ask me for a story
one that we've shared before
I'm told I need to read it
sat on the bathroom floor
Time is always precious
who knows what's in store?
I'll always be your grand-dude
but you won't always be four.
I had a reason to clean some spaces this week
my art studio and two bathrooms
a guest was coming,
which is the only reason I ever clean
she did not have to use the restroom
I offered them to her six or seven times
all is not lost
it was nice for me to have a clean bathroom for a change
Fido took time watering the large tree
Forced to stand in line at dog park to pee
Fidgeting they can't hold it
Fearing to move they all sit
A pet peeve, with bladder concern; knock-knee
5/1/2024
There was a young woman from Crewe
So drunk that she puked in her shoe
The old biddy who saw
Dropped her mouth down in awe
For they were both using the loo
*I wrote this poem on January 6, 2024, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ January challenge. This was day 6 and the prompt was: “There was a young woman from Crewe…”
It can be quite amazing
to an older mind that's stretching back.
Do these memories tell the truth?
Or are they somewhat distorted?
But three times in a few minutes?
In that bathroom at Aunty Elsie's house?
Sometimes I grasp my right hand with my left.
I seem to be saying, Cease, quit! Stop that at once!
Do not wriggle or jiggle with temptation,
to hold that private part of me.
I seem to be pondering on those times,
wondering what this hand wishes to achieve.
Why did she have such an interesting son,
that older cousin David, in those teeshirts and sneakers,
showing me how to climb trees
and hide in leaves, and do things?
Amazing, yes, as thoughts reach back
to so many years ago.
Did I really do that in Aunty Elsie's bathroom?
Three times in a few minutes?
(27 Dec 2023)
(Elsie appears in two other poems: "A Rubbing of Hands" and "Coronation for a King")
Aromatic, foul
Fuming scent, last night’s dinner
Reeking, stinking smells
Shelly had been talked into marrying this guy.
He had money and would take care of her.
She got more nervous as the big day came near.
Money is not love, money is only, well, money.
Her parents kept reiterating how marvelous this wedding was.
They had dollar signs in their eyes which implored her to run.
Shelly excused herself to go to the bathroom.
She never said which bathroom.
Permanent guests of their stream!
Indeed, their bathroom: the stream
After a good shower 'cream'
Combined with the stream 'Day Dream'.
They now go there as a team,
Before and after smiles beam;
From the same classroom, same stream,
Quadruplets the four seem,
Save that Agatha was slim
And just the one who could swim!
if you are finicky or squeamish at all
do not crawl under that locked bathroom stall.
You never know what you will find on the ugly floor
crusty dried feces and urine, other awful stuff galore
if you are the one who locked it and slid out of the way
know that we custodians kind of despise you today.
Ring the bells for me
Fairytale clock keeper
I wanted to meet a beautiful end of my own design
But those sticklers at the bureau are obsessed with time
I couldn't hold on to my youth , adulthood failed me
All my golden arrows missed their mark and between the sheets I never connected the dots
Why does every touch feel cold and lonely
I didn't just want love I tried to create my own but evolution backfired her dna has missing parts and I sit crying under streetlights
Wallowing in wistful delusion
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