Another Washing Themed Thing Poem

I've been most upset since my husband told me that the Queen has never had a shower in her life. I don't know how he knows this, but he always seems to be right about everything so I think he probably is about this too. He also told me ages ago that in something he read the writer said that quite often standing under the shower in the morning he would realise that this was probably going to be the very best moment of his entire day. 

Anyway, I then remembered that one of my favourite Les Murray poems is called Shower, (I hadn't thought of it until now, but perhaps Murray was a thing poet, like Ponge) and in the spirit of encouraging yet more washing, hands and otherwise, in this virus infested world, I give it to you here: 

Shower by Les Murray

From the metal poppy 
this good blast of trance 
arriving as shock, private cloudburst blazing down, 
worst in a boarding-house greased tub, or a barrack with competitions, 
best in a stall, this enveloping passion of Australians: 
tropics that sweat for you, torrent that braces with its heat, 
inflames you with its chill, action sauna, inverse bidet, 
sleek vertical coruscating ghost of your inner river, 
reminding all your fluids, streaming off your points, awakening 
the tacky soap to blossom and ripe autumn, releasing the squeezed gardens, 
smoky valet smoothing your impalpable overnight pyjamas off, 
pillar you can step through, force-field absolving love's efforts, 
nicest yard of the jogging track, speeding aeroplane minutely 
steered with two controls, or trimmed with a knurled wheel. 
Some people like to still this energy and lie in it, 
stirring circles with their pleasure in it, but my delight's that toga 
worn on either or both shoulders, fluted drapery, silk whispering to the tiles, 
with its spiralling, frothy hem continuous round the gurgle-hole' 
this ecstatic partner, dreamy to dance in slow embrace with 
after factory-floor rock, or even to meet as Lot's abstracted 
merciful wife on a rusty ship in dog latitudes, 
sweetest dressing of the day in the dusty bush, this persistent, 
time-capsule of unwinding, this nimble straight well-wisher. 
Only in England is its name an unkind word; 
only in Europe is it enjoyed by telephone