The Leaky Faucet Strikes Again

A poem

Photo by João Paulo Carnevalli de Oliveira on Unsplash

I.

Call a plumber
and I should, but
by the time I admit
it’s broken, the drip-
drip-drip has already
stopped.

II.

Should I mention, if I ever do call,
that it only leaks for three days
at the end of July?

Probably not.

III.

There is a steady presence
of puddles outside my garage,
and a stream that comes 
and goes near the Senegal palm
behind the pool. I wonder
if a duck will take up residence.

IV.

Pitter-patter pitter
pitter patter, plop
patter, pitter. Plop.

Plop.

Schwip, schwop, schwip
schwop, plunk.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

V.

Three months went by, 
and the puddles dried 
up, and the stream
disappeared. I’m sorry to say
a duck never did come by.

VI.

I sat by the pool today, on a brown
lounge chair in my favorite black 
and white polka dot bikini, watching
my duck swim laps in his stream.

I was halfway through a particularly
well-made lime margarita, shaken,
when it dawned on me that the puddles
and the stream were because of the faucet.

That rusty, chipped, not worth its weight 
in steel faucet that a licensed plumber 
once assured me would be totally fine, 
had found yet another way to ruin my life.

And in May!