The Heavy Wrench, Or, What Stays

Mark, just there, by the sink,

the slow drip. He wouldn't

look at me. His jaw, set,

too hard. The pipe, it just

leaked. Still.

He wiped the same wet spot,

over and over, with a rag.

His knuckles, white. Red, raw

from the wrench, from twisting

it too tight, I guess. A small,

pained sound escaped him,

a kind of grunt, not quite

a swear.

"I got it," he said,

his lip trembling, just a little,

a flicker, then that

tight, fixed smile.

And I saw it, then. The cost.

The years of not asking,

of holding it all,

the stupid, heavy weight

of having to be the one

who always fixes it.

Even when it just

keeps dripping.