Bar Soap

It's a body-wash era,

This modern world is.

So,

I know,

It's old-fashioned,

But to me,

There's nothing,

Really,

Quite like a fresh,

New bar of soap,

Representing cleanliness,

Beginnings,

Second-chances,

Not to mention hygiene.

A fragrant,

(Though unscented),

Bar of soap,

Recently unboxed,

Birthed deliberately from cardboard,

Reliably waiting,

Shower silent,

In the morning darkness,

Is a revelation.

That is,

Of course,

If,

(And it is a questionable if),

You have taken the time to replenish,

Previously,

Over the course of spouse-away days,

With no one to go and retrieve.

Each morning,

In bleary-eyed suffering,

Showers of soap scraps,

Tiny slippery slivers,

So difficult to hold onto,

Turning the act of cleaning up into a weird,

And frustrating,

Game of hide and seek.

So,

There you are,

Blindly rinsing shampooed hair,

Reaching across the gulf,

In the black rain of a pre-dawn shower,

Suddenly recalling the dire suds condition,

The leave-it-for-later lather roulette,

In short:

The self-imposed lack of soap.

And you are stuck,

Wondering if you've let yourself down,

Contemplating the whole,

Shut the shower off,

Half dry yourself then scoot,

Feet on towel,

Totally exposed,

Across bathroom to cupboard,

To negotiate cellophane and damp cardboard,

Then shuffle back to shower,

Freezing,

Facing a future of soggy,

Disappointing,

Already-damp-towel,

Only to have fingers find that you,

Have indeed,

(Thank the Almighty!),

Remembered.

10-17-19