I’m not a giant.
But at six foot four
I need to bend my knees in the shower.
I look like a flower
moving its head to find the sun,
except I hunt for rain clouds.
If a shower is too powerful
it can feel like a group of wet snipers
completing their mission through my chest.
If the drizzle is too light a sprinkle
then what’s the point?
I used to blame a weak shower
for my dour moods, or disappointing smell,
or for the drought that would leave me
too dry to get out of bed.

© Carl Burkitt 2021