There’s always that moment of choice
when you’re lying in your bath, half-asleep:
should you pull the plug now? Then a voice
whispers, stay a bit longer . . . The deep
water’s warm and your body’s relaxed,
and your mind’s on unwind – it’s as though
pleasure won’t wane, only wax,
forgetting that you also know
it’s normal for tubs to grow colder,
and that if you apply the hot tap
getting out will become that much harder
once you’ve let your resolve further sap.
But awareness of how things must end
doesn’t help with the matter at hand,
and you’re now far too old to pretend
such dilemmas can somehow be banned.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be
pleased to hear from you.