The Moya View

Wash


The white light of my bathroom  
reaches down through the steam,
breaks yellow through the shower door.
I scrub my skin, try to scratch loose 
all the sour, stinging memories inside,
hope the grime would disappear 
in the porous mat under my feet.
The steam flows like a host of ghosts 
into the vent fan-  leaves behind
only  the face of tomorrow 
in my  mirror’s reflection.

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JONATHAN MOYA

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Comments

2 responses to “Wash”

  1. Jane Pryce Avatar
    Jane Pryce

    Interesting subject. I think I’ll show it to a friend to siad she didn’t poetry could be written about ordinary things!

  2. JONATHAN MOYA Avatar
    JONATHAN MOYA

    Oh, I do it all the time.

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