Still Moving

The drain was clogged with something—

grit, a leaf, a matted scrap of lid—

and the water wouldn't go down,

just turned in the same slow skid,

two cigarette filters orbiting

a flattened coffee cup,

brown water going nowhere,

not letting anything up.

We'd ended it so cleanly.

Both of us had smiled.

You said something like take care

and I said something mild

and walked. And then I stopped

above this little stuck parade

of everything the city drops

and doesn't want, but hasn't paid

to have removed yet.

The water was still turning.

The drain just sat there, patient.

I couldn't tell what I was learning.