Saturday Morning Showers

I

Saturday morning showers

Are my favorite.

With not a care in

The world

At only nine years old

I already used

Showers to

Contemplate.

II

Plinking and dropping

All over my

Hair and my

Face and my

Eyes and my

Teeth.

Water, water, everywhere.

I’m much too happy

To ever care

If the hot water runs into my face

Or if the water turns cold

For even one split second.

Because I secretly like

The cool, clear streams for just that one moment

Pouring down and down and down

Enough to make me shiver

But not enough for me

To cry.

But only in a Saturday morning

Shower.

III

I always complain

About showering at night.

Mornings are better.

IV

The air is

Always too cold

After a long

Saturday shower.

There are goosebumps everywhere

When I step out.

I quickly run,

Light-footed

With towels galore

Wrapped tightly so

As not to sneak a peek.

And land myself in a still and shivering pile right on the carpet in the living room in the sunspot of sunlight as it slips through the pulled back curtains and the dingy glass window so that I can warm myself like a cat because even cats need baths every once in a while when they get themselves all slippery and slick with the mud of a brand-new day.

V

I have to move

From my sunspot

So that mama

Can vacuum.

She puts on some old

Synthesized music

And begins to dance,

Swaying her hips back and forth

To the time.

Her hips no longer slim

Like a youth

But widened.

A badge of honor

For birthing four

Screaming and

Laughing

Babies

Into a world

Of Saturday morning showers

And lilac trees

And dead-end streets

With blackberries to pick and

Thorns to scratch.

She always cleans on Saturdays.