I feel like a bulging drip
on the ceiling tiles, as it grows heavy. It must shed
from its own weight. It collects in a bucket
of overused smiles. Gets thrown out once it’s filled up,

along with the mildew and other rot of broken
promises and lost thoughts. The tinny sound of each plunk
leaves me in a funk. So, I naturally crawl
back inside the spaces overhead where the furring

strips have lost their grip. At some point the whole thing
will collapse like a house of cards unevenly
stacked. But until it happens, I’ll go kerplop. Make bluesy music
with each resounding drop until I reached the top,
and get emptied out again like a longshoreman.