by Frank William Finney
I’m sucking on soap
in a cabin kitchen
while suds seep out
the broken windows.
All of this is just to say
we all feed our sinks
in our own woozy ways
despite your subtle spoof on spoons;
the fine set of forks
you stole as a child;
the way you dropped his ring
down the drain.
I’m counting on you
to put it all in perspective.
There’s a towel on the rack:
Your turn to dry.