Showering

Tuesdays, in Crimean bathrooms
with soft Lillie-patterned towels
and drab retro curtains, the rings
in the fine shapes of tiaras.

A crackling window, interrupting
The wilting willow patterned wallpaper
And browning tub.
Who's the man that was in the mirror?

The man who hears the tempered hum
of the fluorescent light
that basks the room sterile yellow
and strains the molding air.

Who's the man
that dried his busy hands on the towel,
and crumpled it behind the tank
to capture the trickling leak?

The mirror knows the man
who has forgotten himself,
tangled and strayed
within the sallow sylvan sequence.

Old reflections know him best,
and truth be told,
that man in the mirror Tuesday
was never there.