Green Bloom on Copper

The drip-drip-drip, a tiny drum,

has been calling me, numb

to the slow decay. Under the sink,

a green fuzz, a sickly pink

on the pipe's cold skin.

Copper, turning, letting in

the air, the damp, the patient rust.

It flakes off, a chalky dust,

under my thumb. Not solid now,

but porous, yielding. How

long has it been blooming there?

A small, quiet, cold despair.

Like something living, or undead,

this green crust, slowly spread,

eating the metal, making it soft.

My own skin feels a little rough.