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?