The Fix That Waits

Drip.

Drip.

That damned faucet.

I brush my teeth, morning rush,

watch water strain against a dented lip,

waiting.

Each droplet hangs like a promise,

hesitating,

then falls —

missed deadlines in a leaky rhythm.

I tell myself tonight, tomorrow,

but it laughs through stainless steel,

splattering my resolve,

dark stains in the sink.

The sound follows me out

to the waiting door,

a steady insult I can’t ignore anymore.