Three Years

I had a low-grade thing —

nothing, just enough to keep me home.

I stood in the shower longer than I should have.

The hot water doing whatever it does

when you've got nowhere to be.

Twelve minutes in I realized

I was staring at the curtain.

Three years.

I've had this curtain three years.

The pattern is — I don't know.

A leaf, maybe. Or a shape

that used to be a leaf

before whoever designed it

got too far from the original.

Or a fish. Something with a curved edge.

It repeats in columns, slightly offset.

I've never once looked at it.

I stood there trying to decide

what I was seeing.

Sick and standing and genuinely uncertain

about an object I bought.

I got out. Dried off.

I've looked every morning since.

Leaf or fish.

Fish or leaf.

I'm no closer.