Middling Temperature

Water waits, neither ice nor fire,

lingers soft in its flat empire.

Hands hover hesitant beneath,

a bath that fails to soothe or seethe.

The faucet drips a lazy song,

a tired tune that stretches long.

Steam hovers, thin and shy,

a promise that refuses to fly.

Soap slips slippery, slow to spread,

a ritual performed half in dread.

Lukewarm water, neither cold nor hot,

a daily ritual best forgot.