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
