The bucket is full of a slow steady beat

The bucket is full of a slow, steady beat,

overflowing onto the wood by my feet.

The boards are beginning to bubble and rise,

distorting the kitchen in front of my eyes.

I bought the wrench but it sits in the drawer.

I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.

The faucet is coated in a white, chalky crust,

brittle and hard, like a form of distrust.

It drips through the night, a metallic sound,

digging a hole in the silence I found.

I’ll get to it later, I tell the dark wall,

or I’ll wait for the floor to just give up and fall.