I, my head in a root cellar,
wince the wrenches and
am baptized in the eyes,
as I pull chunks in and out
making plumbing sausage.
Heart’s delight…
sewer gas oily warm and sweet,
pipes grown greasy green-black
or crusty powdery white from
myriad drips of warm spit.
Toilets once prim and trusty
murmur and flush themselves
in the dead of night
now become crumbly rusty.
Later I’ll don a pastel sundress,
sip bergamot tea from
a shell-like china cup
painted with thin-petaled roses
and go shop for scarves or see
a cotton candy chicky flicky.
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