Interval

The dark is thick and tastes of dust,

the porcelain is streaked with rust.

I’m lying here and counting slow

the heavy sound of the water’s go.

It hits the basin with a thud,

like a finger tapping into mud.

A rhythmic, cold, and steady beat

that makes the silence feel complete.

The washer’s torn, the handle’s stuck,

it’s just a bit of rotten luck.

I watch the circle start to grow

where the orange slime begins to show.