The faucets are dripping.
Can’t you do something?
The noise, the slow porcelain erosion, the waste —
it’s all too much. Too dreadful.
In a time when the hose has developed holes,
when the washer leaks, and when soft colonies
of black and green draw life from irrigation,
form some slow approximation of civilization
silent but unquiet and contemplating protest,
heap mass on mass until a drain is blocked,
I am myself unsettled. Anxious. Ignorant but afraid.
Grant me the illusion of thy peace.
One wants a certain degree of timelessness,
a series of everlasting moments,
some lingering conviction
that this may be the best —
the best, mind you
(but I could settle for at least not the worst) —
of all possible worlds.
Decay and rot notwithstanding.
Thus, the motive behind civic trash collection,
public utilities and parks,
a bronzed set of small shoes on the office shelves.
We seem to push our attentions past the distractions
of degenerate reality, preferring (though I suppose it may be only me)
the life of stilled ships with limp sails,
bewitched upon a pallid, pensive sea.
(No doubt smoking languidly, in formalwear.
Definitely reclined, unconcerned, powerful.)
Even so, rats dance along the rigging
and root among the stores and die —
as do we all, once water and provisions run dry:
the faucet, in other wods, drips. Inexorably.
My suspicion long has been this:
we are wandering the hallways and empty rooms,
jiggling the handles and tightening spigots.
Pointlessly? Perhaps.
Some once-adaptive imperative compels us
to put the house in order.
What happens here, after? One never knows.
One hopes. One fears.


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