Written on Check No. 62566

this morning i was

scrubbing shampoo into my hair

and squeaking clean my ears

with my pointer fingers —

still half asleep,

living in the dream

i had just been enjoying

of an ex-lover fondling me —

when i looked down at the tiled floor

and at the brink of my big toe

was a puddle of white lather

slow to slither down the drain,

and i saw a mushroom cloud

down there below my feet

made by the products of So-and-So Inc.

and the dead head molecules of myself,

and it made me smile

and laugh a little,

thinking that, indeed,

i am dying more with each shower,

me being recycled back into the world.

i washed the soap away,

dried off with a devious smile,

and went to work

to die some more.