Early Bee Gets The Pollen Poem by Keith Michael

the water runs right to the edge as i lower myself down into the tub. candles on, flame flickering swaying from left to right and then back in unison with the slight breeze thats coming through the cracked window. i slide slower…a little lower… feeling the water run over the back of my neck and into my hair. the steam is rising from the water, my cold body set it in motion dancing ever so intricately above my head, and the faucet lets the steam from its ear. the mirror begins to fog and condensation trickles its way, one by one downwards into the sink where it will sleep. i close my eyes and imagine you, your perfect body, never flawed, never aging and withstanding the tests of time. i can feel you in the room, sensing you pushing me over to make room for you, and your scent, ever present and your laugh over Bach. Suddenly i awake, and on the window, your handprint. five perfectly placed fingers stretched out with a dropp of water sliding down from the palm. like a newly unrooted flower that sprang up overnight while the others were sleeping, to surprise them when they woke up and shook off the morning pollen off.