Working Order

The faucet handle has a mind of its own.

When I try for cold, it slants

to the left, leaking a lukewarm stream

over the stack of crusted plates.

I have the kit in the drawer,

the little wrench and the washer,

but the screw is stripped.

The metal is a smooth, silver crater

where the teeth should be.

It’s been three months of this.

The rattle follows me into the hall.

I could call a plumber,

but I’d have to clean the kitchen first,

and I’m too tired to even

turn the water off all the way.