7/26/2020

There’s a spout in the corner of my brain,
that leaks and leaks and
even when I shove a bucket under it,
or turn the knob
righty-tighty,
I cannot seem to get it to stop.

It drips that musty mold smell,
smells of a stagnant pond in late summer.

I fear the mosquitoes.

I can turn it on full blast,
but I fear flood
and overwatering
and root rot.

I’ve dampened all that’s left here.

It drips, though.

It really still drips.

7/26/2020