Clean

He bathed every night
and by that I mean a proper bath
scalding water, a blanket of suds
small table within reach
holding books, the newspaper, a phone
a large marble ashtray
cradling a fat joint
half weed, half tobacco
just the way he liked it.

Often I would keep him company
squirming to get comfortable
on the cold porcelain toilet seat
listening to his stoney tangents
rolling my eyes
as I held the joint to his lips
or the cell to his ear
when his girlfriend called
the steam curling my hair.

When we had been lovers
I would join him sometimes
I could never stay very long
the soap stinging my eyes
the water burning my skin
caged between his legs
tub shrinking
walls closing in
his arms, a vise, too tight around me.

"Why don't you like baths?"
he asked, puzzled.
Wrapped in a towel
dirt and ashes
leaving a ring of filth
round the drain.
I shrugged and turned away.
Truth was, I did like baths.
But not with him.