I hide in the bathtub this evening.
Sipping berry-tart red wine.
I'm swimming in sweet smelling joyous bubbles, like marshmallows in the steam
Tiny opulescent arcs stick to my my hair, my nose, my toes.
I listen to folksy music,
with a wet remote in one hand.
Guitars, sad women with tales to tell,
Poetry set to music.
I throw in a few worship tunes for good measure
In my small bathroom; A barricade of peace
Four walls of contentment, a ceiling of recovery,
A solid door of comfort.
I think there of writing and how I should do it more often
I think of life, and love, and nostalgia.
I find a shred of my creative former self.
It's amazing what you can find with steaming hot water over your ears.
Outside the door shouts the
jin-jin-jin-chun-chin
of the automatic machine guns and the click of re-loading
The zoot-zoon of the flash bombs, the light so bright.
The fire, blood and barking attack dogs.
The yelling, screaming sounds of men in battle.
With surround sound, the living room is a war.
That is, the war of the video game my husband has been playing for the past two hours.
It is a boys' game for a grown up problem.
A spilling overflow of testosterone.
A strangely realistic re-enactment-
of wars in strange lands, of past times, of real terror.
Our favorite things to do
somehow as distant as two rooms in the same house,
Soaking behind my door of comfort,
ten feet away.
