Today, I wander my fridge for the cheapest beer I own,
the beer with the taste closest to water (or piss) –
flavors which complement linoleum floors and
shower curtains and fogged mirrors.
Today, I sit down on the shower floor (which I know
I have not cleaned) – pressed toes against walls,
water spinning down the drain.
And I crack open this beer – my shower beer.
Today, I let the water patter down my face (into my eyes),
onto my shoulders, like I was sitting in rainfall instead.
And for this moment, this cheap beer feels like
Hard-won solitude, precious summertime.
Today, I forget decency, forget prudency, forget
the world that exists outside aluminum cans and
wet tile. I fill my mouth with beer and rain.
(And sweet, stolen time.)