A poem I wrote for my BYU creative writing class. My professor loved it, but the New Era didn't. I hope you appreciate it.
It’s about time the bathtub was cleaned.
 |
| photo by Pam Roth |
A detailed history of sweaty workouts, first dates, bad hair days,
And all-night cramming stains the puky plastic.
I snow the tub with Comet and let the dam loose,
Warm water crashing down.
I start to scrub.
And scrub.
The tub frowns back at me the same.
I think I’m going to need a bigger brush.
Scritcha, scritcha, scritcha. One layer gone.
Scritcha, scritcha, scritcha. Two. Three.
My wrist is as limp as a doggy ear.
More Comet. More water. More slaving away like Cinderella.
I think I can even hear my evil step-sisters laughing.
If only, if only I had not waited until the grime came, saw, and conquered!
The clock tick-tocks in rhythm with the scrub brush, but it doesn’t harmonize.
Red knees, cramping arms, everywhere wet, wet, wet,
Forehead and faucet dripping.
Finally!
One last scritcha and I stand up to behold
The fruits of my hard labor.
The tub sparkles gold. Its pages are wiped clean.
It smiles brightly in its new purified state and asks me,
“Why did you wait so long to let me feel this way?
We both would have been happier.”
And then I understand what Alma* meant.
I sigh to myself and decide there is more scrubbing I must do today.
Comments