If I had known I would have made more lather.
Smell of ivory soap, clinical, clean, nothing extra.
We grab these plastic things and push out the slippery stuff
Sprinkles, then gushes of water.
We mold it through our fingers, our longing.
Clinching the lower palm, bumps on the top of our wrists
We make lather.
Smiles, happiness, memories of yesterday
We claim all of it, the white ephemeral transformative spiritual foam.
We relish in what we create