Birthday in the bathtub.
I’m past the “Are we there yets?”
the late-night bar visits;
I went solo long ago.
Self-respect holds no regrets.
Now, it’s Sakura bubble baths,
exfoliating loofahs,
Yuzu cleansing masks,
and pumice stones.
A singer-songwriter music playlist
to exfoliate another year off to.
Bradbury’s “Something Wicked this way Comes,”
I thumb through chapters I know,
marvel at the fluid sentences,
coconut shampoo tingling
against the poly-foam pillow
in my watery, warm bed.
True, the city needs tending—
new seeds take root, but
I’ll have to ignore any executive orders
for the next few hours
’cause I’ve got serious soaking to do.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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