The tub, with its sloping back and claw feet, fills with all the words from all the books I have ever read. I immerse myself in them, separating alliterations and metaphors with the scissor-cut motion of my outstretched legs, leaving only their impressions in the wake. Lavender prose surges forward, then retreats, as I reach to add warmer words, or cooler ones, turning the faucet handle like a page. They gush in, rising above the overflow drain where the pipes gurgle and swallow them whole. They are clear words, tinged with blues, deep and thoughtful, scalding and soothing. Tears and laughter and lovely turns of phrase flow over the rounded edges and spill across the floor, going everywhere and getting into everything. They calm and incite, express love and bitterness, loss and hope. I impale one on the soft bar of soap with my pen, where I can examine it and maybe make something of it. I wash it away and make a stab at another. I raise my hands and let them drip through my fingers, searching for those that will make a splash on the page.