BABBLING, LIKE A BROOK
For NG in Boca Raton; i.m. Robert Browning

In the upstairs shower stall, Ryan rinsed a conch.
I half expected him, Jack or Ralph-like, to blow on it.
We had no colander on the kitchen hooks. It’s not first lover stuff.
Shower stalls are. So too are large aquaria, worth the dough for show.

We stood there, glass tank at our feet, mutely debating,
smeary glass door wide with coral & conch in hair-washing spray.

The shower head fizzed into sand-weighted water.
From a foot away, I watched, wondering. A foot from the fizz.
Could now we say we had showered together; would that be no lie?
Almost accurate was it, nearly truthful that we’d reached what?

That turning point in our relationship we had anticipa
The turning point where showering together is routine, even
if both of us stay fully clothed. “Sure we did it,” we can say
to ourselves and each other, at least. And nobody saw.

In Sex & the City our eyes would have met. Close-up. Chemistry.
Same thought crackling electrically, coursing me to Ryan, he to me.
Tank gone. Removed. Totally out of mind. Merely a McGuffin to get us to where
clothes fell away beneath urgent hands, effortlessly, no fumbling this time.

A magic wand translates us into McQueen and Dunaway after chess.
Shower stall extends enough to contain us comfortably. Miracle in mind.
Water as hot as we like? An unlimited supply. No stumbling, slipping,
fumbling, or odd grunts. Call of the conch should be so smooth.

Shower stall to be our consummate ease spot for a moment. I think,
but with the conch properly rinsed, the last of the sand from it has gone.
Now it’s more than a week ago. More than a week has passed since that night.
There is the tank, babbling like a brook. It is empty, needing fish.

Writer: Duke Barrett (nom de plume).