Niagara at my house

The drip in the bathroom
echoes. The splash each droplet
makes as it hits the tub
is joined by the sound of a slow leak,
water escaping the toilet tank,
the makings of a percussion
orchestral movement.
There’s a conspiracy for everything
to fall apart at once.
In the morning, I’ll wake to the sounds
of the sink faucet adding to the cacophony,
a crescendo building until finally
like Niagara, a rush of waters,
an overtaking.

Perhaps that’s why I don’t drag out
the tools, the wrench and other unnamed
instruments of the Mr. Fix-it set; I’m waiting
for the flood of water
to overcome and pour down my stairs.


Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.