In front of an antique shop
squats a claw-footed bathtub
filled with soil and rugs of moss,
a plush experience awaiting
anyone brave enough to strip
here in the village June glare
and join the many naked ghosts
plunging like lovesick dolphins.
Maybe someone will purchase
the tub and refit it for water
and varied sexual writhing.
But what of the turf and foliage?
Can’t dump them on the sidewalk.
The tub must go as a unit,
given the healthy state of the moss,
which would weep if uprooted.
The price tag: six hundred dollars,
complete with graveyard plantings.
I’d rather just imagine the ghosts
of Renoir nudes flaunting
their billowing flesh and roiling
in a passionate tub of suds.
The world was cleaner when no one
thought of planting Irish moss
where people bared themselves to bathe
with all their shameless innocence
burning in their upturned smiles.
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