Singing in the Shower

It is not in the quiet of the morning
But in the silence of the night that she sings,
The beating of rushing water accompanying her.
Her voice, the lower pitch of alto,
Bounces off the porcelain walls of the bathroom,
And it traveled out through the little windowsill,
Traveling with the translucent steam of the shower.

The songs that she sings are almost all the same,
Not that every song had the same tune or words
But that she sings them all
With bits of her soul and pieces of her heart,
Clearly with a dash of hope and a hint of love,
Singing them as if she herself wrote them all.

On some nights, a few would pass by her window
And stop for a moment to hear her sing.
Listening to her, they would hear themselves do the same.
For every stranger's voice that joins her,
She would smile and continue on.

Then the final song ends,
And there is the squeaking of shower knobs.
The stranger would leave without a word,
And she would sing her way out into her halls.

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