Amber water dripping from the ceiling–
inadequacies from above. Last night I drank

a strawberry margarita & saw on your father
the face of your sister. He poked a hole in the tile

with a ballpoint pen. Asked for a hammer
nails or a screwdriver & we had none. The

rain at war with this city flooding three days &
I face temperance by drinking less & choose

games at bars we fold up at the end of each
loss then go home to watch movies because

the self grows this way forward. You study
heavy books I lay on the rock futon in our guest

room far from the tarp across our bed & the new
carpet stained from what we cannot stop. Water

follows least resistance the contractor says.
I need small emergencies to seal these gaps.

(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)