My grandma’s tub had feet
and Olympic-pool-sized feeling
her toilet had a chain
that hung down from the ceiling.
More, the bathroom window
was tall and opened wide
so fresh air and scent of train
could cleanse the room inside.
Now I have this footless
peculiarity
someone mean invented
to taunt and bully me.
It can’t be cleaned without
risking tendinitis
when I fold to fit its contours
it gives me rigor mortis.
It’s called a garden tub
a pity and a shame
someone ought to sue
for slandering garden’s name.
The window can’t be opened
the toilet’s in a box
so I reach way back in memory
where my grandma’s bathroom rocks.
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