The winter dash
from my pyjamas
to under the hot water
without exposing skin to icy air
is a ridiculous polka,
paralleled by the shuffling
inarticulate conversations
we circumvent.

The water pressure is low
the geyser far away.
When I should be leaving
I'm juggling soap and shampoo.
When I should have gone
I'm spitting down the drain.

I piss in the shower to save a minute
when I need a lifetime to catch up.