Littering the bathroom floor
The discards of my people:
All the different colored hairs
In every state of curl
I possess no mop nor broom
To lift them from this graveyard
They infiltrate each other's squares
Just to multiply
Do these vagabonds
When the room is filled with steam
Look upon those nudes behind the glass
And etch into folklore
The days of their exile
By razor
By scissor
By soap and
By stone?
Do they conspire to return
Some day
To their place in the warm skin
That bore them?
#NaPoWriMo 2013 poem number 21
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013