Membrane (by Tom Baird)

Membrane
A red slipper
footless
under the stool.
A red towel
molted to the floor.
The damp breath
of shampoo
still hanging
in the air.
The clock
drips its seconds
into the sink,
one by one,
counting the long pulse
when you are away.
The bathroom
is never empty of you,
like a skin
hung open,
moist,
warm,
waiting
for your bones
to arrive.
(c) 2008 by Tom Baird
all rights reserved by the poet
included here by permission
We gratefully acknowledge the clevelandpoetics blog's weekly "Blind Review Friday" series, where an earlier version of this poem first appeared (http://clevelandpoetics.blogspot.com/).
"I’m not sure what to say in a bio, but I’m 57 and retired and live in





Hauntingly beautiful.
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This is a very pretty one. Things one feels but often doesn't put into words... or know how... glad someone did.
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