Waterlogged

The battery died three miles from the drive.

I walked until I didn't feel alive.

The denim is a cast of frozen lead,

anchoring my legs and filling me with dread.

I'm sitting on the tile, a heavy heap,

while the cold of the storm begins to seep.

A dark, blue stain is spreading on the mat,

the indigo of failure, thick and flat.

The wool of the sweater is a sodden sponge.

It’s the final weight before the final plunge.

I can't reach the buttons, my fingers are stones,

and the water is moving inside of my bones.