On Wednesdays

On Wednesdays, I drink in my bathtub.
Prying that thought from my mind raises hackles
As though I need to justify myself
Which is silly, of course
But I overthink, you see
So I’ll explain; here goes.
Wednesday evenings are my introvert time –
A time at which I justify my actions only to myself.

It isn’t always alcohol, if that’s what perplexes you.
Although I post photos of foaming bubbles,
My literature for the evening, and my beverage,
Sometimes it is just juice.
It is easy to make people think your green juice
Is a stout when you shoot in a Guinness glass
And edit in black and white.

My bathtub doesn’t overflow with water,
If that’s what has you concerned.
Sometimes, there is no water, because I have
Filled my bathtub with blankets and pillows
Due to showering earlier in the day,
And not wanting to use up too much water.

Technically, it isn’t always my bathtub,
If static lives have you on edge.
I traveled last month and took my leisure time
In a hot tub surrounded by lush green grass,
And took mocking pictures of Winter Ale
Against this smug backdrop.

It is always on Wednesdays, though,
Because I needed a time to call mine,
And the rest of the tradition fell into place.
It’s a date with myself, which I always keep,
To remind myself that what is important isn’t
The precision of the suds or the flavour or the drink
But the fact that I am doing all of this
As an enticement for my introverted self.


Thought Process

Note to readers: It is help you to think of this as being performed by a slam poet; in fact, it is even better if you picture a very new slam poet who hasn’t memorized their piece and is reading prompts from their phone.

So, I was walking down the street, rehearsing topics of conversation in case someone talked to me at the social event to which I was journeying. You know, the regular thing I do when walking, unless I am listening to an episode of Welcome to Night Vale; not listening is a result of either:
A)  the episode has ended and I don’t have time for another, or
B) the crappy dollar store battery quit without warning on my mp3 player.

Anyway, earlier that day, I had seen a picture of my nephew in glasses for the first time, which was the potential topic I was going over. It’s hard to go wrong when talking about adorable beings. What made this noteworthy, however, instead of just another adorable tiny human story, was that he is only six months old, and to quote a friend, the addition of glasses made him an unholy level of cute. I had a photo ready on my phone in case the hypothetical conversationist was the type who demanded pictures to prove happenings.

As I was thinking this over, I glanced to the left of my walking path and noted a dead pigeon dangerously close to where I intended to step. I don’t know what killed it, besides likely loss of homeostasis, because, really, that is the cause of most deaths, but I panicked and swerved right. A split second later, I was overcome with the feeling that I should have done something to resolve the situation – or at least made some connection between the new life I was pondering and the death of this creature.

Did it fly into a window because it couldn’t see it? That thought was about as far as I got before the memo app on my phone ran out of space to record charact-

(ers. I didn’t have time to rehearse the rest, so, in case anyone talks to me tonight, I’ll likely mention the nephew and his new perspective on the world, but not the bird.)