A hot, hot tub of water.
enough to lightly scald the skin.
Unsafe, but satisfying.
You are glad your heart is strong.
An ice cold glass of bourbon.
Condensation forming on the outside,
so cold, you can feel the slightest sip
Sinatra plays on the stereo,
loud enough to hear, should you choose,
low enough to ignore, when your mind drifts.
It is the end of the day.
There is dirt to wash off,
not all of it physical.
You close your eyes, happy for this moment
when no one needs anything,
not even you.
About this poem.
I adore hot steaming baths. And it’s not about getting clean. It is about cleansing the mind and soul. My kids call my baths “lobster baths” because I am all red from them when I get out. Hot baths, as hot as I like them are not good for you if you have a heart condition. Fortunately, I don’t.
I love bourbon. I rarely drink it though. My father was an alcoholic and even though I’ve never shown signs of sharing that proclivity, I am still very, very careful about what I drink. I only drink when life is very, very, very good. And only one.
I came to Sinatra late in life. There is a satellite radio channel called “Seriously Sinatra” that plays his music, and others too, singing the Great American Songbook. I like the singers of that music because they seem to be singing to you instead of at you. There is an intimacy to them that doesn’t show up in music very much any more.
I collect pictures of great tubs when I travel. Historic homes. Old Inns. Deep tubs and light and space. Heaven in my book.
From all that, a poem.