prunes

Letting the bathwater get cold
is not difficult to do, with complacency,
stillness and being preoccupied
The tiles stale, but the water never ripples
With impossible, inevitable slowness
the smallest particles ever seen or felt
lose interest
and are no longer entertained
They go dormant, or die-
it doesn't matter which-
and together grow cold
It can happen any time
I miss the prunes
that now diminish every time
Like memories
that still exist somewhere
or perhaps: reminders
They are sometimes just the same
sometimes bigger and deeper
that they are shades
waves of reality
And then I'm reminded:
I still have the same old towels.
Can that be true?