Drip
Mar 8 2009


The tap drips
methodically ticking-off time;
a persistent finger
poking my skull from behind.

It starts as a glistening
of pure reflective light,
rounding-up
with exquisite deliberate slowness.
It hovers there
elongating imperceptibly —
a tug-of-war
between gravity
and surface tension.
Until it pinches-off
in a perfect polished pearl;
so smooth, it slips through the air
resistanceless,
bombs-away
all-the-way down.

Where it lands
on the stained enamel sink
with a loud emphatic plunk.

And I sit, hyper-vigilant
waiting
for the next one.
The suspense
keeping me on edge
as my life ebbs slowly away,
one small drip
at a time.