That plink… plink… in the bathroom sink

That plink… plink… in the bathroom sink,

it’s the sound he always made.

Clearing his throat, before he’d think

about the words, unafraid

to speak them slow. I’m here alone,

staring at the chrome tap’s gleam.

His voice is a phantom, a monotone,

lost in this watery dream.

"Did you get the oil changed?" I asked him then.

He just cleared his throat, the same way.

That was it. Now and again,

that drip brings back that day.