Showers by Finn Jensen

The bathroom its basic blue walls think they can foreshadow your purpose, you sit, in the corner, a monument of sedentariness, a paragon of rigidity. My dear old man, you know you’re set in your ways, like a mountain, a pyramid, a cathedral, a temple, you sit there, doing the same thing, 23 hours and 30 minutes each day, each year, housing your precious elixir.

I pull open the glass door I enter your hallowed chamber This bunker, This fortress, block me from the missiles of the outside world. I turn your silver handle all the way up, the key, the passcode, the bolt, unlocking your vault of liquid gold.

Old man, I know you don’t like change; you release an icy avalanche, at first you’re stubborn, you make me wait, you only give me icy glaciers, lecturing me on the wisdom of patience. My persistence annoys, you want to be left in the peaceful ease of your solitary corner. “I’ve waited long enough,” I think, you show me your irritation, you dump an inferno on me, you make me fall in lava “Too warm.” I turn the handle back slightly. You, begrudgingly, accept my company.

Your water flows over me, falling into the drain enveloping me, consuming me; this waterfall of antidote is me. Heal my wounds, fade their gashes, take these pains into the drain. Rejuvenated, I step out of your sanctuary.

Shower, old friend, those blue walls underestimate your power. We have our disputes, I know, but you are my steadfast refuge: rejuvenated, I step out of your sanctuary, ready to brave the world.