Clawfoot

Clawfoot

Tonight in the bath with a glass of scotch
some bubbles and soft music
and a book on quantum mechanics
I began to think of my old clawfoot tub
And all of the Friday night soaks
we used to take when my roommates were gone.

How we drank cold Riesling when it was hot
and splashed in cool water until it warmed.
And drank hot, spiced wine when the windows
frosted over and we shivered when we got out
and raced to the bed where the heating pad
was warming the space between the sheets.
As if we needed it.

About the time I fell asleep against your chest
and you gently shook me awake and we went to bed.
How the water ran hot enough to turn our skin pink.
I remembered the rubber duck we named Alfred
(you took him along when you left)

That time when, after changing the razor's blade,
your hand slipped and we both watched shimmering droplets
of blood mixing with the bubbles before either of us
thought to reach over the side for a towel.
How, afterward, you murmured "I love you"
into my ear and I sat up so quickly water
sloshed over the edge of the tub.