I nurse my newborn son
and run the shower. His breath
knocks against the night air, nose
clogged by a cold. I watch
the water rush to the drain,
until a lush steam lingers. I lift
my boy, holding him inches
from the showerhead,
as close as I dare
to that bountiful, boisterous stream.
He inhales the thickened air
as the mirror before us melts. I wait.
This water is not mine.
I waste it, without hesitation.
I consume it, without a question.
I am not more
than my child, who
cannot turn the faucet
for himself.
I am not more
than our neighbor,
four blocks away,
who sleeps beside
the old school yard,
and taps on our door,
and offers to rake
our leaves
for a twenty.
I am worth
no more
than these.
Yet I loiter
with my child
in this bathroom
for an hour until his inhale
is easy and his exhale
is smooth and nobody asks
what I am doing, or how
I will account for this
mad rush of riches.
May this moment
become the meat
and the bone
in my throat
when I next
start complaining
in the desert
for bread.
