The shower water

The shower water,

it just keeps rising,

a slow, warm tide

around my ankles, then my calves.

The drain a glutton,

swallowing only

what it chooses,

and not enough.

My breath catches, stupid.

This tiny pool,

just dirty bathwater,

and still, the cold clench.

Lake Huron, fifteen years back,

the sudden drop,

the weeds like fingers,

the sun a coin on the surface

too far away to save.

This rush, this tight chest,

this frantic, childish gasp

for air that's already here,

a rising dread, a hidden fear.