Leak

The roofer pointed out the holes before he left
and the rain found them, too. Last night,

its yellow stained the ceiling, the novels on the desk
below the peels of plaster the color of coffee

spilled. Woken sooner, I would have found the covers drenched
still, the billows of warped paper, words questioning the roof

above their pages. While I aired the books along the window,
I thought none of us has ever slept in the rain

before. So used to its knocking at our sides,
I never imagined it already in

our hallway, our bedroom, hidden behind the walls
looking for a crack to make its way to downhill.

I planted a bucket under the leak to catch the rest
of the storm and fell asleep to his footsteps

running to the edge of the pail
until he ran out of breath.












Geoffrey Anderson has an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. He helps foreigners pronounce “beach” and “sheet” without offending people in Columbus, OH. His work has appeared in journals such as Modern Haiku Review, Rust + Moth, and Conium Review, among others.