Bathing last night

Glowing from the window to the floor, then to the towels hung up on the door: orange street-light streams in a dense diaganol. To the side, the shadows of splashes wave back, from white enamel. Fist gives a finger to the sky of night and city light outside, drops deeper down in the width of warmth.

The demands of the day almost are past. Silent, still, alone at last... Only for a moment: and there was the tomato, the corner of a cherry tomato, slipped out from the well of the anus, circling the tree of the leg, dragged by the plash of current to the land's-end of the toe, before dawdling along to settle up, on the plain-like expanse of the gut.

Beautiful thing! It had survived the gang-bang of the stomach, and the teeth falling down like grand-pianos, and the thundering highways of the internal tubes, and the blood at the wall of the gut - baying like the obese for their burgers - to emerge red (reddish-brown) and dancing, drifting then darting, before nestling by the cave of the belly button, in the end, as if to say: hello, friend.

Its last ordeal was yet to come. I, Fist, would decide what to be done. Tease out the seeds, and add to the garden a new breed? Or to avoid waste, season to taste? Or evacuate the thing, here from its new city, to the waste land of a rubbish dump, along with plastic wrappers, disintigrating toothbrushes, and probably a tampon, via the bin?