Pat, my son, left us two years ago today. Pat was a poet. What better way to remember him than in his own words?
TAKING A BATH
by Patrick Ranahan
An intricate hand manipulates the roar
until the spout ceases, providing
only drips, a minuscule rhythm,
and steaming ripples that are interrupted
by toes, feet, and then, an entire beast.
Inspiration, expiration: the level
of water shifts with the lungs
and soon sleep overtakes the creature.
Ripples, steam, drip: all continue.
Our man and the window perspire.
Salt-filled beads push through tight tunnels
and emerge from a taut face to soft light.
Released from epidemic passages
they scatter a mandibular stretch to the chin,
dangle, then leap with a microscopic yelp.
They hit the abdominal runway,
and sometimes split
before wiggling off to waterline.
It is here that they become something
other than alone.
Once submerged, molecular dialogue occurs,
rumors regarding pending demise, lost friends,
and hints of a nexus beyond this container.
Published in Latitude on 2nd
Cool Waters Media, Inc. 2012
I wonder, Pat, as I reread your poem, did you have a premonition? Did you know you'd be leaving us way too soon? Did you know?
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Hope you're having a good week.