Friday, December 7, 2012

Hotel Soaps

are all you left me.
Wrapped in thick, smooth paper
like miniature chocolate bars,
pocketed from beside the sinks
of countless Hiltons and Travelodges.
You claimed that you hadn't bought
a bar of soap in thirty years.
Even now, they swell a shoebox.
We joked about nestling them
inside your casket, enshrouding your corpse
in stolen washcloths. I don't know who
ended up with the washcloths. 
I wash away the walls
of this skinflint room
brick by melting brick.
You will not be truly dead
until the last sliver crumbles
into chips against my slippery flesh.
It won't be long. Life is short.
There's no sense skimping on the lather.

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