Draft

The steam has already vanished from the mirror.

I’m sitting on the edge of the porcelain tub

with the water still dripping off my chin.

My hands were shaking too much to find the hook.

The blue towel is a heap on the linoleum,

sopping up the puddle I made when I got out.

It looks like a heavy, drowned animal.

I should pick it up before the mildew starts,

but the air in here is moving like a draft,

and I can't find the energy to stand.