My shower head was down to the last seven streams of water,
the other thirteen or so were either clogged
or just slowly dribbling out sad little droplets of hard water.
The calcium and lime buildup around the jets grew
greener and thicker with each day passing,
yet I never felt the inclination to attempt cleaning it.
I just stood there in the few remaining streams each day,
rotating slowly like the ballerina in my mother's jewelry box,
trying to wash away the ***** suds from my hair and shoulders.

Until one day,
after I had gotten home after a grueling twelve
hour shift at the dogfood plant where I worked and
stepped reluctantly into my bathroom, I peeled
the sweat stained clothes from my reeking body
and reached behind the curtains to turn on the water.
The only response I received from my poor shower
was a loud groaning noise, like a man attempting to
pass a particularly large kidney stone but having no luck.
Three or four drops of water escaped from the mere pressure
building up in the old pipes, then it quit altogether
and the groaning ceased with a brief moment of silence
before the face of the shower head burst, throwing plastic
shrapnel in every direction and spraying the ceiling and walls
with rusted water.