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A Poem for Plumbers
by
Tony Gruenewald


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I am impotent
lost in the labyrinth
of plumbing that plagues
my existence. Pipe wrenches,
washers, teflon tape,
all rendered useless,
their inventions voided
by my uncouth hands.
 
 
For the god of domesticated
water mocks me or at best
does not consider my
petitions and prayers: valves forever
frozen open or shut, whichever
is least desirable, threads eternally
crossed or stripped, faucet leaks
reverberating like 3 a.m. thunder.
 
 
Ecstasy is:
the number of an honest
plumber; one whose sympathetic
touch can sooth the savage
sweat of my sickly
pipes and spigots
and whose smile
won't seem patronizing
after reviewing the results
of my humiliating attempts
to perform an act
of plumbing.
 

This poem first appeared in Edison Literary Review.
Used here with the author's permission.

 


Tony Gruenewald lives in New Jersey and works as an archivist for major media companies in New York. He's the author of two books, The Secret History of New Jersey, and Honk, and his poems have appeared in numerous journals and publications.
Tony claims to be "an unrepentant baseball geek;" he also enjoys hiking and road trips. Learn more about him at www.tonygruenewald.com.

    

 

 


Post New Comment:
msruff:
It's amazing where a fascinating poem can spring from (pun intended). Well done.
Posted 01/17/2015 10:17 AM
Ross Kightly:
Only those Admitted to the Inner Sanctum of Initiates Into the Mysteries of the Lead must ever try to do plumbing! As this marvellously true poem amply illustrates! Thanks to all concerned.
Posted 01/17/2015 03:06 AM


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