The Costume on the Rug

I’m standing over the porcelain basin

watching the beige water swirl toward the hole.

The heavy cream is finally coming off,

leaving my face raw and pale in the glass.

I look like a person I haven’t seen all day.

The starched collar is a white circle on the rug,

stiff as a dead bird.

I’m just skin and a draft from the hallway vent.