The Accounts of a Bathing Beauty, Circa 1944

I soaked in this dingy little tub,
wondering good and long what it was that I ever did to you,

I sat on this tattered red chair recalling that I had once borrowed it,

without so much as a single inclination to return it to your care

In the beginning,

I saw visages of the end,

moments that I knew would come to fruition,

But I had hired proxies for the better part of my days,

they were good puppeteers,

but they got tired of reenacting The Fountainhead,

and I couldn't blame them,

no one was as beautiful as she believed Dominiqe to be,

as any of us did

In the back of the file cabinets,

there were memorandums about us,

about our failures to come to terms,

to agree to disagree with grace,

You were vapid,

and the bubbles in this tub reminded me of your tepid way of life,

and the way that even in its infinite silence, 

your disappearing act was thick and malignant