Tepid

The faucet gave up after four inches.

Now I’m shivering in the gray,

knees pulled up to my chest

like I’m trying to fit back into the start.

The water is the color of a rainy Tuesday.

I trace the hairline crack in the enamel,

a thin black vein running toward the drain.

It’s been there since I moved in,

a quiet fault line in the porcelain.

The overflow drain is crusted in orange.

The rust has eaten a circle around the metal,

a jagged coastline of a place I don't want to visit.

I stay until my skin goes prune-soft,

waiting for a heat that isn't coming.