Tub Jazz

It is past midnight and you lie in the tub,
steam rising from the hot water
that turns your skin pink
and sets your heart beating

like a man in love,
confronted with his beloved’s perfect skin
for the first time.

There is music playing in the background,
Jazz,
and the soft tones of the bass play
counterpoint to the sweet trumpet,
as the piano deftly dances between them.

Four candles flicker,
the only light in the room, reflected
by the ancient mirrors with
their pitted silver, crippled, but still
capable of sending light to the far corners of the room.

A cold glass of Southern Comfort sits on the tub
ledge, condensation from the icy amber liquid
falling down the sides of the heavy glass.

It is here that love is so often reborn,
where your mind, relaxed and softened
by the intoxicating mix of music, heat and the dark night,
recalls memories, fantasies and truth
in a heady stew that stirs the loins and the heart

in equal measure, soaking into your skin,
and under it, like the finest perfume,
subtle, almost invisible, and utterly unforgettable.

About this poem

There are shower guys and bath guys. I’m a bath guy, and it’s more about mental health than getting clean. My body soaks in steaming water and my mind wanders…. everywhere.

Tom

PS – I took this picture at Belle Grove Plantation at Port Conway, the birth place of James Madison, and a fine, fine bed and breakfast inn.