Robin Richstone, The Bath

Robin Richstone

First I will fill the tub,
and while that’s happening,
I will untie your shoes,
unbutton your buttons,
lift away the leathers and fabrics
with their scent of airplanes,
foreign smoke, and being
confined too long in one small space.
In your delicious skin you will
half sink, half float
into water scented with bergamot,
I will tip your chin and
anoint your head, I will
lather shampoo through
your fine grey hair
and rinse it away, your eyes closed,
as with some other pleasures.
Then I will take my hands and the soap
and rub every inch, every half-inch
of your perfect body
that I never tire of,
the years it carries, the places
it has taken you, the trouble
it’s gotten you into, including this:
me, my hands, this hotel room,
the thick towels waiting
for the final act.

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