Remodeling the Bathroom

If this were the last

day of my life, I wouldn't complain

about the shower curtain rod

in the wrong place, even though

it's drilled into the tiles.

Nor would I fret
over
water marks on the apricot

satin finish paint, half sick

that I should have used semigloss.
No. 
I'd stand in the doorway

watching sun glint

off the chrome faucet, breathing in

the silicone smell. I'd wonder

at the plumber, as he adjusted the hot

and cold water knobs. I'd stare 
at the creases behind his ears and the gray

flecks in his stubble. I'd have to hold

myself back from touching him. Or maybe

I wouldn't. Maybe I'd stroke

his cheek and study

his eyes the amber of cellos, his rumpled 
brow, the tiny garnet

threads of capillaries, his lips

resting together, quiet as old friends—
I'd gaze at him

as though his were the first

face I'd ever seen.


- Ellen Bass