Broken faucet
like water dripping from a faulty faucet,
my chest sits mostly dry of emotion,
but occasionally there are bouts of rainfall—
the barista giving me a cup of free ice-water
on a day when doodles paws are dried & fried,
the pretzel-salty scent of sweat rolling down your back,
washing the shreds of hair on the nape of your neck
that the stylist didn’t manage to scrub off, the gossip
of schoolgirls carrying lacrosse sticks that floats into your ear
the way each pothole is uniquely shaped to screw up
the sidewalks and freeways, a boy plucking a dandelion
from the crease in between blocks while dressed as a man‒
kiss these memories, have them act as drain cleaners
as you barricade the times you were momentarily mesmerized
by the beast that broke your tap & drove you to dehydration
.
Stink Eye Magazine 