Waterproofing the Gaps

The landlord left the tube

on the laminate counter

like a white plastic bone.

He didn't bring the gun

so I’m pushing the plunger

with the back of a wooden spoon.

It’s twelve-fifteen

and the bathroom smells

like a wet basement.

I try to run a clean line

but it smears across my thumb,

a thick, chemical paste

that won't stay where I put it.

The tile is cold against my knees.

I’m thirty-two

and I’m fighting a leak

with a kitchen utensil

while the rest of the building

is quiet enough to hear the pipes

shiver behind the wall.