I’ve had the odd shower with some filthy old friends, fat ones, thin ones, and some round the bend: some so twisted I blush to think, at the things some leave in the bathroom sink.

Sliding down walls to the tiles on the floor, sticking to ceilings, the windows and door; slimy with juices from movements too quick, some so athletic they left me quite sick.
 
Though not nearly as sick as some I’ve squashed, smashed and bashed while I got washed; soaping down what rises up, and down again with eyes screwed shut.

Gasping, moaning, sinking back, from what can slip in pipes and crack; the shower curtains stiff and cold: revealing slugs, and fresh black mould…