she allows me
to view her evening ritual

she wrestles a sweater over her head
after it catches on her earrings.
next, gravity forces her denim skirt
to parachute downwards.
finally, violet panties drop onto
the laundry pile, a dark contrast
to the cream colored linoleum.

her garments fall quietly, it seems
lost against the rumble of old plumbing
and pings caused by droplets striking porcelain.
she stretches to toss the day behind her
the computer problems, the line at the pharmacy,
the constant pull of caffeine on her psyche.
she surrenders to the therapeutic echo
bathwater running languid from a faucet,
humidity coating her bare skin.
she sinks into the coffin-length tub
breasts drowning underneath warm waves,
the miniature tide lapping against her collarbone.

after awhile, my eyes have recorded too much footage
or the sound of blood rushing to my penis
becomes way too audible.

so she rises
tracking moisture across the room
and shuts her curtains decisively
until tomorrow night’s episode begins.