1
Thoughts stir the suds,
sense the right sleeve
slacken, watch it fall,
do a bear’s flop
into the water.
2
Hands resume their
fractionation. One bubble
drawn from its kin
suggests a trumpet.
Something about the angle.
A trumpet, like a shiny
needle, keening red berets and
red bandages into a crown.
3
Another bubble
carries the residue of a touch.
A perception on the neck
so slender, only ear lobes
know it, recognise a sound
such as wind makes
to charm the willow tree.
4
Beneath the water
where monsters
would sport if this were
Homer or Hollywood
one of those mustard yellow
plates scooped from a
supermarket.
It is perfectly flat
on its base
at the bottom
of the bowl.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly content.
That sleeve splashes down again.
She giggles.
Lets the water take it.
kj2oct10
