The toilet can't catch a break has it even worked for a single straight year, I'm on my knees
wondering if it sweats through the ceramic, whether it senses its own demise. It won't be
left on the pavement with a sign, unlike the neighbour who said free bidet about their free bidet,
free from a household that decided to wrap it in thick clear plastic like a corpse behind the drywall.
Toilet, nothing to mark its passing, its shut off valve a rusted gun, see I once tried to make a
water feature out of your stair case, your house is an emanation, surely, of that first date in
Koreatown, remember that restaurant with the grand piano jutting out of a waterfall, funny, you barely
register it, you barely think that a restaurant should be a gaudy gem. You assumed all
first dates took place in spaces such as these, you assumed a first date would never lead you
to this neighbourhood, with its hand me downs of most known objects, and a night like this one,
fretting in bed about one plumbing bill you refuse to pay and whether the other plumber you don't
owe will answer.
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