Living in a Storm Drain
William Doreski
Contorted into a storm drain
under the village, I live
a life I can easily afford.
Frustrated housewives feed me
dinners husbands don’t appreciate.
Children crawl in to poke and probe
and otherwise amuse me. Daily
I emerge to shower and shave
in the town hall, walk around town
and pose for tourists. Autumn light
flatters my wrinkles, white shriek of hair.
Rain flushes filth and debris
from my homestead, but because
I’d drown as deep as anyone else
I have to exit before the flood
and shelter under the hardware
store awning, or enter the café
where men who paint and plumb houses
complain my lack of housing
creates no business income
to help put their kids through college.
The days and seasons fester
in the world. The storm drain feels
much the same year round, body heat
warming me in winter, the natural
cool of the earth comforting me
in summer. Year after year
I elongate in my tube-space
until I’m so worm-like the people
who don’t know me gasp with surprise.
Meanwhile my pension accumulates
in the bank. Fed and housed, I live
for the sake of living, the housewives
who feed me unable to rouse
the slightest gender loyalty,
and the dark inside the storm drain
too snug to allow me to think.
Contorted into a storm drain
under the village, I live
a life I can easily afford.
Frustrated housewives feed me
dinners husbands don’t appreciate.
Children crawl in to poke and probe
and otherwise amuse me. Daily
I emerge to shower and shave
in the town hall, walk around town
and pose for tourists. Autumn light
flatters my wrinkles, white shriek of hair.
Rain flushes filth and debris
from my homestead, but because
I’d drown as deep as anyone else
I have to exit before the flood
and shelter under the hardware
store awning, or enter the café
where men who paint and plumb houses
complain my lack of housing
creates no business income
to help put their kids through college.
The days and seasons fester
in the world. The storm drain feels
much the same year round, body heat
warming me in winter, the natural
cool of the earth comforting me
in summer. Year after year
I elongate in my tube-space
until I’m so worm-like the people
who don’t know me gasp with surprise.
Meanwhile my pension accumulates
in the bank. Fed and housed, I live
for the sake of living, the housewives
who feed me unable to rouse
the slightest gender loyalty,
and the dark inside the storm drain
too snug to allow me to think.