The Only Thing

Two hours at that table. The pad,

the clause, the landlord's careful threat.

I kept my hands flat. I had

my face together. But I'd met

my own dry mouth by the first half hour.

After that: just thirst.

The voice, the nod, the sour

back-and-forth. The worst

of it was how loud it got—

the thirst—louder than anything

being said. I nodded at the right slot

in the argument. Signed. The ring

of the hallway light. The tap.

I bent over the sink and drank

until the shirt was wet. The gap

between that and everything shrank.

The mirror: still dressed for it.

Water on the chin.

The thirst gone quiet. Bit

by bit, the rest came in.