June 18, 2024

poem in which I try to convince you I know something about plumbing

because of how easily the word “flange” rolls off my tongue and because I stood
in front of the wall of supply lines at the hardware store with a look 
of utter determination, and when later, I lay on my back to twist and tighten 
the gasket, I didn’t ask for a pillow or a light or sympathy. But the truth is, 
I am, above all else, a beginner, my efforts fledgling no matter how many times
I lay my hands on the hardware. Not just this sink I’m pretending to install,
but any effort, tilting out of the nest and into who knows where. Watch, there’ll
be a leak at some point, and I could run to the stack of towels to sop it up, 
erase the evidence before you walk in on the mess. But then I’d miss the odd 
music coming from the pipes, and the small pool on the floor in the shape of us.