When I was small my mother
used to wash me in the sink.
Bathing in the kitchen
has shaped the way I think.
It took me years to realize
that I didn't fit that tub.
The kitchen sink
was just too small,
a place for me to scrub.
I remember once last winter
I tried to get back in.
All my toes were bunched up,
and my knees were to my chin.
My body was too big.
I was simply out of luck.
If simple is as simple does,
quite simply, I was stuck.
The sink was like a bottle neck.
My rear end like a cork.
I tried to pry my self free
with the flip side of a fork.
I thought that I could slide free
if I used a little soap.
Stuck inside a bubble bath,
there simply was no hope.
My fingers turned to raisins,
and my elbows turned to prunes
while bathing in
dish water
with the dirty forks and spoons.
My mother bathed me in the sink.
For this she is to blame.
Eventually I got out,
but I never was the same.
To this day
when I come in
to get a little drink,
I'm tempted to take off my clothes
and climb up in the sink.