Tuesday, March 15, 2005

From Izzle Pfaff


Sylvia Bath

I have done it again.
One day in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of caulking miracle, my tub.
The sour mildew
Will vanish in a day.

I have suffered the atrocity of toilets.
Munge in the bowl
My brush filaments scrub and burn, a hand of ick.

Now I churn up soapstuffs that fly about the tub.
A film of such indolence
Will accompany my bystanding: I must shriek.

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it not terribly well.

I do it so it does not smell.
I do it so it feels clean.
I guess you could say I bought some gel.

Does not my sponge astound you. And my rag.
All by myself I am a schmutz Godzilla
Scrubbing and powdering and brow-dering, flush on flush.

I think I am cleaning up,
I think I may sanitize--
The motes of green Comet fly, and I, toilet, I

Am a pure ammonia
Attended by noses,

By hisses, by effluvium,
By whatever these pink fingers clean.
Dead hands, dead astringents.

There were stains on your white parts
And we tenants never liked you.
We are dancing and showering in you.
We always noticed your goo.
Bathroom, bathroom, you bastard, I'm through.

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