Porcelain and Ivory

My porcelain tub has become materially egocentric.

Its water descends from head to head

pulling hairs like pulling teeth:

rectifying the corrosive part of your whole.

Your hair isn’t defective, it effectively

stops my tub’s beloved water from escape.

Freedom awaits down the drain,

yet my tub won’t release its amorous pool.

“To permit a chase to freedom

is to allow a grandiose circuit of pipes

to caress and contain you, my beloved.”

So says my emotive container,

wistfully the exclusive collector.

You and I acknowledge the water must run

as to fulfill it’s liquid decision;

to fill up those around it.

Satiation breeds inspiration: independence

and autonomy of companions.

Thus, you remove your hairs, clotted with identity

and your ivory body’s black grime,

to permit creation, progression;

the supposed emblem of your action

My bathtub and I stay dry and high

to achieve forward notice when your water returns.

Running down a hill it is distilled:

entirely mine and more pure than before.