I get up five times tonight
to turn off a dripping faucet, only to find
the bathroom desert-dry and silent.
Without glasses, in the mirror I look
like an arrangement of shadows,
the kind of ghost
elementary-schoolers across America
turn off lights and spin around for.
If I come out of their mirrors
I will scratch their faces
into shapes of the countries
their ancestors left. I will leave
the faucet dripping.