The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

in this clawfoot bath
I anoint my head with salves
I lather on
                and wait
                and rinse

in this tiny room
i contemplate how
with the sweep fall of snow
  i can—

in the chilly air
i decide you're right
  that one fluffy pink towel
isn't like
  that other fluffy pink towel

             —as I move to dress
the house echoes
my hollow footfalls
as is its wont