There’s a painting
of a cow bone on the wall
of the bathroom and
india tile lines the stall
with its cistern waterfall.
My feet, touching the slate
cut by untouchables, rest
in the pool and let go the heat
of steel toed boots. 

This aqueous state soothes
my soul with its slow pour
over my poor crown. I stand
on this earthen surface
and consider how the stone
in this dark and shaded place
holds it cool. I stay and stay
until distant thunder pulls
me out, bow to the cow bone,
towel off
and look out the grotto window
to a northern view: soft fescue
and locust trees all the way
to electric poles on U.S. 62