Seashells at 2 A.M.

Two in the morning and I'm standing

in the shower, not washing.

Water on my back, hot as it goes.

Forehead against the tile.

The curtain's pressed wet to my arm—

teal and coral seashells

in fading rows, nine across.

My roommate bought it at the dollar store

last winter. One shell is torn

where the plastic catches the rod.

I've walked past this curtain

twice a day for six months

and couldn't have told you

what was on it until tonight.

That's what two a.m. gives you.

Not revelation. Just detail.

The shells. The grout. The mildew

creeping at the hem. A cartoon face

on each one, grinning at the drain.

I press my forehead harder to the tile

and think about rooms—

how many I've stood in

that were somebody else's choosing.

This apartment. This shower.

The soap I didn't buy.

The bathmat someone picked out

before I signed the lease.

You show up and the towels are already there

and you dry off with them

and that's your life for a while.

The water heater clicks and quits.

The stream goes cool against my back

and I don't move.

Two a.m., dripping

on a floor that fits me

the way a waiting room fits—

enough to keep you

but not enough to be yours.

The steam's already thinning.