I was scrubbing toilets for
money, then
a rhythm came upon my head
"da-da duh-da-duh da-duh duh" then
the smell of *****, yellow brine.
Later, when I think to send you
the poem it came from, I think of the discovery of it
"From a magician's midnight sleeve"
                     and the way that we read. And
I think of the toilets I scrubbed, and the words
hidden there lost in all the little flushes, like
everything happening outside my window now: I ran
and ran in the thunder. I am still soaked; home is so far.