I can hear the soft cackling of budding puddles
Water on Water
Violence.

I lay back and rest my head
Soothed by memories of mornings when I had little to do but sleep, with the
Sound of shuddering old pipes
of the second story of the house,
Rushing liquid scalding
as it washed the dreams of my parents
away.
They would dress as I lay loosely aware of
drawers scraping shut.