The Valve

You have your finger on the copper lead

explaining how the pressure has to rise.

I watch the way the metal starts to bleed

a layer of sweat before my very eyes.

I fixed that valve three winters back, alone,

with a pipe wrench and a rag to stop the spray.

I know the way the plumbing tends to groan

and how the sediment gets in the way.

But I just nod and let you have the win,

a small deception for a quiet night.

I keep the truth tucked tight beneath my skin

and let you think you’re making it all right.