Slipped into the warm and scented bath,
the pink, Rubensian form
stretched out an arm
to make a choice of soap,
displayed on chrome.
The glistening ear,
encircled by a strand of dampened hair,
is listening to the hissing in the street,
the wet crescendo comment of the road,
accompanying the passing of the cars,
diminuendo as they drive away.
Without, the angry clouds have blocked the stars
and hid the moon, scuttling, furious.
The trees are shaking fists towards the sky,
protesting with the last leaves left.
Within, the hand that reaches out
and picks up carefully each soap
and contemplates her choice:
sandalwood from India, brownish red,
glycerine, like some wonky glass,
each approach the nose upon the head
of this Rubensian form,
half floating in the hot and scented bath,
cocooned from savage night,
within this mundane sanctuary,
this little hour,
when wakefulness comes willingly
surrendering to sleep.
© Alisha Sufit
Drawing: Bath Time click to enlarge