Drains

 

I look down into the murky abyss

of my bathroom sink,

listening to the satisfying hum

of hydrogen peroxide. Where do

sewers go for a cleansing, a

baptism? They have one use

and one use only. Charon knows the

drill; my toilet does, too. I can

hear the atoms fizzling. I can

hear my atoms fizzling,

separating right

into two.

 

 

 

What All Remains

 

You’ll find me like Socrates

on a Central Park bench

flaking into dandruff

 

From the gas tank to the pint bottom,

we live off dopamine bumps—

what keeps us returning—

even if it harms us.

 

So even if a stray bullet

is invited to my skull

or the fiery mushroom

ascends from hell,

at least I’ll have a microscopic

version of me

fluttering around somewhere.

And don’t forget to pick up

your fucking trash on the way out.

 

 


Hailing from Philadelphia, Josh Dale is a Temple University alum, bicyclist, and owner of the sweetest Bengal cat in the tri-state area. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in 48th Street Press, vox poetica, former cactus, Huffington Post, Your One Phone Call, and others. He runs Thirty West Publishing House as founder and editor-in-chief and slings words on occasion at bookstores and dive bars.

He tweets @jdalewrites

September 22, 2018

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