The air in this sublet is stale and dry

The air in this sublet is stale and dry,

under a strange and yellowing sky.

I went to the kitchen at two in the morning,

the floorboards giving a creak and a warning.

I filled up a glass with the local supply,

watching the bubbles float up to the eye.

They clung to the side like tiny white beads,

ignoring my thirst and my midnight needs.

It tasted of iron and a handful of change,

a mouthful of pennies, metallic and strange.

A reminder I’m sleeping in someone else’s bed,

with someone else’s plumbing inside of my head.