are clogged, the plumber called.
He arrives with a snake, and within minutes
pulls your hair and my spit
with some bits of blood in it
in one big turgid mass that he plops in the trash.
It's funny how tangled things get
in the end, and how quickly
removed
expunged in one spongy thick ooze
so everything flows a little more easily again.
"You should probably get a drain catcher," he says,
and I wonder how he knew
about the slow siphoning
of self, the bits coming unglued,
the parts of me that washed
down the drain
after you.
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