The Basement Logic

The landlord is calling again.

I’m standing in two inches of gray water

watching the plumber pull it out—

a long, pale nerve of white fibers,

slick with everything we tried to forget.

The sidewalk tile outside is tilted,

a slow-motion explosion of concrete.

The tree doesn’t care about the blueprint

or the rent I can't quite afford.

It wants the moisture in the dark.

It wants to break the foundation

just to see if the pipes

are still full of us.