If a Toilet Falls From the Sky
During demolition, a toilet falls from the window of my childhood home.
I ruin another group chat with inappropriate questions. If a toilet
falls from the sky are we supposed to feel something? How long
do we keep our umbrellas up after it stops raining? How long until
the danger clears? Stories find ways of never really ending
if we let them belly flop into the future. One night
can become a million, the idea of a night, then nothing.
Sell me a face mask to recover from the side effects
of lying. All the reusable water bottles I’ve lost lead like crumbs
to the witch’s house, and look, she’s bathing in a kiddie pool.
There’s no lead in the water, apparently, so drink up before
the sun comes crashing down. It’s not safe anymore,
nothing is safe with diamonds around. Diamonds glint
like baby models. Diamonds smell apple cinnamon.
The rain is loose sequins, the afternoon a cracked egg.
What do we feel when anything could emerge?