The Perpetual Tepid

I turned the faucet, hoping for a bite

of cold, or steaming comfort. Nothing right.

Just the in-between, a weak, flat flow,

over the back of my hand, too slow.

It ran and ran, this water without point,

like a thought you can't quite unjoint

from your head, but it brings no clarity.

No sudden shock. No true utility.

My fingers, numb to temperature, just felt

the slickness. The small desire knelt,

then faded. Some things just refuse to be

one thing or the other. This, endlessly.