A gentle spray washes over me,
melts the sleep from my eyes,
launches my daily ritual.
Amidst a veil of steam
I invoke the Muses
through divine saturation,
but find that cleanliness
is not always next to
godliness
when the Fates intervene,
halt my inspiration.
From bottle to hand,
one squeeze releases them
A hand to my hair spreads their disease.
Enshrouding my scalp,
their fresh herbal scent
distracts my olfaction,
while they tinker with my pH
                             Balance.
Unseen fingers massage my thoughts,
working me into a lather
that brazenly renounces
the clearly labeled, tear-free pledge.
Built-in conditioners
provide cream-rinsed notions
of watered-down minutia.
As I burst into old TV theme songs
of castaways and happy days,
of horses,
of course,
and men named Brady,
I have to wonder to myself:
Am I just another human playground?