The Slow Tax

It’s the only clock that doesn't lie.

A rhythmic prick against the silence

of a kitchen that stopped trying.

I shoved a rag into the throat of the spout

just to make the world shut up.

The cloth bloats, heavy and gray,

like a lung pulled out of a river.

The drain has a ring the color of pennies left in the rain,

that sick-green copper rot

telling me exactly how much I'm losing

one salt-bead at a time.