Your wide porcelain mouth yawns at me,
Inviting me to fill you
And drain you,
As you swallow a few more gallons of hot weary traveler soup
The cold tile floor along your border
Littered with discarded wash cloths and towels and
Tiny bottles of lotion and shampoo.
Three more fluffy towels are neatly piled on the generic laminate wood end-table
Still folded, still pristine with their precise terry-cloth angles
They perform a charming ruse that suspends disbelief:
These things have never been touched, never used.
These towels,
This bathtub
Has been in patient waiting for you
And only you
