Shower Scene

We flounder in our wattled folds
like objects lost for decades
in the omphalos of a corpulent woman
standing haply in the shower,
dugs dragging on mildew,
sobbing and shaking and bellowing
eurekas of wonderment and surprise,
delighted at last to discover
the wedding bands she’d been missing 
for years, and a baby in the bargain.

We flounder in our wattled folds 
until we drop, and then we’re tumbling
down the accurséd declivity
of the bathtub, heading straight
for the unplugged drainpipe
where collapsars and dark matter
and curlicues of pubic hair
dance their Coriolis pirouettes
and disappear with a gurgle.

But nothing’s ever over
until the fat lady sings.