the plumbing is in disrepair

squatting at the edge of the muddy excavation
he has dug to discover the leak, he hatchets
the line free of arm thickness redwood roots
and scrubs the ancient rust-disfigured iron pipe
with his wounded hands to expose the pinhole
spray at the impossible junction of the main tee
and a half inch nipple immediately coupled to
a more contemporary copper hose bib on a short riser
improbably buried for who knows how many years,
clearly the first collapse of a corrupt galaxy of
galvanized piping that guarantees the eventual
engulfment of the entire fucking property

he leans back, sees the sky in stitches through the
lattice redwood and laughs till he is helpless
on his back in the leak bedazzled grass

*

A retired carpenter, Ted writes, paints, plays tennis with Amy Lee. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, and twice for the Pushcart Prize, his work appears in Beloit Poetry Review, PANK, Spillway, DIAGRAM, North American Review.