soaping

In a scarcity of you

and I was born dirty

everyone around had

some role to play

in it I am reminded

of a feeling a certain

way and how long

it must take and

so I stopped

washing myself.

There fits quite

some time between

a soap to touch

me for the first

and the last for the

first and the last,

getting cleaned

was a dirty act.

I try to grip

the soap

though I’ve

learned

a lesson enough   

hard doing that

would escape

my hands and

I even broke

a whole bottle

of it once on

the floor.

(why hope

when can’t

hold on why

love when

you have

to let go

and so

I stopped

washing myself.

In a scarcity of you

(I condemn and I condemn.)

I put my things

on a conveyor belt

and after

they complete the tour

they knew where

home was, they knew

where to come back.

In a scarcity of you

and I am never convinced,

the why of it all

saves us in

some absence.

The insufficient

times I try

to clean clean clean

myself before I

realize I first need

to learn how

to hold a soap

in my hands.

And for what do we

need soothing?

Why for every

poem needs

to make the

eternal sound?

The how of it

all saves us.

In an idea of you

there is a chronic mud

and me, ever scarce,

I clean clean clean myself.