In the shower grasping wetly
for the purple plastic bottle
chosen for the glory of my crown,
I wonder why it’s called “shampoo.”

Whoever thought to call a thing
a poo?  Especially if it’s sham.
I say:  real poo for me
or else no poo at all

then rinse my brain and reach for the

“conditioner,” (once called “creme rinse,”
more sensual but hardly more informing.)
This stuff is not the egg my mother
broke into a cup of beer to shine wet locks.

These latter years, whatever condition
results from this conditioning,
I must now be well conditioned to.
I’m still in the condition that I’m in.

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