A cast iron bathtub
sits
in our only bathroom of this 1936 home
it is not some fancy claw-footed thing
but boxy sensible and deep
(rather like 1936 itself)
my husband would like to replace it with one new & smooth
but I am held captive
by its rough rutted texture
by its capacity to hold the landscape of lives lived over 87 years
the topography of crackling lines
enamel valleys
palm-sized hills
shadowed pockets white not white
rivers of quiet bliss
relief
grief
reflection
a coarseness that oddly soothes worry with its time & wear
an ancient passage that
if I could navigate my way curling thru the right channel
perhaps
I would
find
my
way
home
