restricted access To the Bathroom Ghost
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78 To the Bathroom Ghost Your usual high jinks—the yank of curtain in the middle of showers, soap bubbles flying— have been absolved. The toilet tissue streamers in great banners dropped from light fixtures, forgiven. But you have taken liberty with the sink: opened the wall where the pipes run through its pedestal, dumped a dark stew of rust down new paint on fresh plaster. Stanching the flow leaves our good towels the color of bad blood. We try to save the money, hundreds of dollars safe if we plumb the sink ourselves. Surely the cursive of pipe runs fluid, predictable as water we pour down its throat. Surely, armed with tape and wrench, we can surprise the leak at pipe’s leaden joints. Tightening the bend where you loosed the rust, we see the red filings of pipe drop to the floor, hear the small clink like cleats on concrete, confetti on penny tile. Jumpers of dislodged metal dangle over pipe, leap just before the geyser. ...


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