I stands there under my
weeping shower head feeling
empathy while its thousand tears
from its thousand ducts slave
once a day (or twice when I got hockey)
to wash away the filth i got into the last few hours.
Then I leaves him up there, sitting lonely,
til i wanna use him again.
And lookin at the beads falling off
my porcelain etched skin i know it ain’t him bein used.
So I get a little jealous thinking
I wish I had someone to cry on, too.
