Drowning

Your voice booms 
through the hollow pipe
in which I'm lodged,
but I cannot hear the words,
only shrieks, shouts
then anger 
as of a mother
for her errant child.

The pipe is narrow --
there is no way past
the cold iron grate 
you've welded in my path
to you, to light.

The pipe is filling --
ice water, swallowing light,
and I know
you're leaving me
to drink my last breath.

You pour water
into a sink,
beside a steaming mug
of coffee,
its vapour mingling
with the blue tongue
of smoke hissing 
from your lips.

Scott Speck
01/05/2001