in my roof
and I'm dripping
down on the terra cotta
rouge tile floor. They

place a bucket under
me. But I let go like autumn
leaves from the old oak
tree. They patch my holes

with lies.  But it doesn't stick
like flies to paper. And the sun
just makes me vapor. The ceiling
bears the water stain. And its shape

has no border. Like this life,
in great disorder. So, they paint
over it with course brush strokes,
like covering a zit. But at night

I still drip. And now I’ve grown
mold, a black thick coat of old
age. Like leopard’s spots
don’t change.