There was a moment that dripped like a faucet
held back from the torrent by a hack of black tape
but the black tape could not hold the wet syllables
at bay within this white chipped porcelain heaven.
Then I remembered the cause of the chipping now-
a mad little drummer with aluminum practice sticks
driving a whiskey fueled paradiddle into the night
until the sleek white porcelain could take no more.
And the chipping became a shattering crescendo
where I found my god as we wrestled to the floor.