How to cope with a broken water heater
in a house with eight sweaty people:
one—swim in the backyard blowup pool
two—wash laundry in cold water
three—debate about the causes
four—boil water on the stove
five—ride your bike in 90/90
(degrees/humidity) for fifteen miles
and enjoy the sluice of ice cold water
that will wash away all your frustration
with the sweat that swirls down the drain.
Six—call the landlord and pray
(we are in Kentucky after all).
on the road she told me not to take
i hug the white line
in a race against the sunset,
not used to the countryside
with its erratic traffic,
endless cornfields dotted
with day lilies as red-orange
as the sun behind me,
hills that curve and roll into
each other like waves of
rural nonchalance, and its
dangerous lack of streetlights.
with tunes popped in and
the golden glow of a busy day’s end
pushing me home, i beat
my average speed, sweat
dripping down me with as many
torrents as the rainfall that
left me drenched yesterday,
and I come into town, settle the
bike into place on the porch,
grinning at the silence of the
usually-loud streetlight across
the street, still dark in these last
few moments of light, basking in
these last few moments of the race I’ve won.
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