Quentin examined the faucet,
four drops would hit the sink every minute;
Quentin counts. A tall, skinny boy
with pupils so deep, one could sail a boat in them.
His long brown streaks would hang like curtains across his face,
like bamboo, or seaweed dangling in the ocean currents.
Quentin sweat, but would swipe his forehead with a dish towel
before the drops could mix with the faucet’s drool.
He was an odd fella, Quentin was.
I would leave the house for hours, and days, sometimes,
and Quentin would always be counting drops.
I had to get the faucet fixed, why hadn’t I earlier.
Friday morning, briefly after lunch, the plumber came with his wrench,
I left him to quibble the rusty tubes.
Upon my return, broken glass and porcelain everywhere,
I didn’t order a painter, nor did I order a tint of red;
the plumber wasn’t a plumber,
his wrench wasn’t a tool,
but a weapon,
to kill my