Work In Progress

I've taken to baths lately, finding the most important things in life seem to be the simplest (i.e. sleep, food). Bathing, I realized, didn't have to be merely for the strict and quick utility of cleanliness, but could be prolonged indefinitely, recharged when needed. One only needs to stare blankly to muse successfully. I wrote a poem encapsulating this experience, or one among many, but it is still a work in progress, as I say. Not even the title is a surety.

Bath
Soapy water and drippy faucet and that sky of empty
that sky of jets and radio waves
that sky of black and cloud and wet
sounding down through the ancient
ventilation of this seventy-year old behemoth
sounding out into bathroom
bringing a sort of ambiance to
the solitude of bathing
an existentialism
and awareness
that
strip the walls
and there are
many nude, many recumbent
humming jazz
and staring ceiling-ward
contemplating nothing
but the planes passing overhead
booming through the atmosphere
tumbling over rooftops
and steeples
echoing proudly down
those antiqued
and white-acrylicked vents

It's jagged out there
and cold
I can hear the rain
tapping bebop on the roof
spitting the rhythms
of way back
old school
the oldest of musicians
Inside, many boxes of home,
enclosure, safety, warmth
the whole reproduction
of womb
and out there
it's classical music
the stuff of baby geniuses
and that most premier
of mothers
humming inwardly