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He searches his toolbox for the proper instruments
but does not find them.    And he will never find them.
It is the constant dripping of water
that will lead a man to despair.

In his troubled sleep, he is tormented by a house
full of leaky faucets, all requiring his attention.
He runs from room to room with all his tools
but is unable to repair even a single one.

At midnight he awakens to his own muffled cries
clenching the imaginary crescent wrench in his fist
only to discover the dim reality  –  that his house
is possessed by seven-hundred leaky faucets.

There are three-hundred boxes of new faucets
stacked neatly on shelves in his garage.  But he never
replaces any of the leaky faucets.  He only adds new ones..
New faucets that given time will also leak.

He was a man known for his wisdom, and yet he died
there in his house, done in by a thousand leaky faucets.
One has to wonder,    What was the man thinking?
I’ve but one leaky faucet myself.    It alone drives me mad.


Robin Offerdahl lives in the San Diego area with his wife and two daughters ages 13 and 11.  His work has previously appeared in Snakeskin Poetry Webzine, Haruah: Breath of Heaven, and Halfway Down The Stairs.

© 2010, Robin Offerdahl

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