A Psalm of Cleansing

A Psalm of Cleansing

You see, the drain’s backed up again, 

my feet now mired in a speckled inch

of cooling water, tepid as an afterthought,  

and here a tangled clump of hair has knotted

all around my pinky toe. In this 

the Monday morning circumstance,  

it’s tough at best to hold the hope

of ever coming clean, long grown

accustomed to the swirling mist 

beneath the mirror light, the six

neglected bottles holding one last squirt

of discount two-in-one conditioner—

I fear I’m getting used to scraping by. 

O Nozzlehead of Purging Water, remind

me that this towel-smudge of clarity is fine

for now, but keep me ever discontent

until the vision and the seer both

are rendered clean for good.