Fight

At first I ran,
escaping the spigot, fleeing
its angry eye so desirous
of being turned counter-clockwise,
so anxious to be un-rivered.
But viruses rose in my throat and I had to stop
running long enough to call up battalions
of orange juice and filtered water.
On the sidelines, laundry battered
and rammed against eardrum buttresses
and I hurled foil balls to no avail.
The lunch demanded to be packed
and this I fought with silence,
taking up position on the couch
with an iPad, whose battery promptly died
(winning irrefutably) and I,
closing the gate behind me
and stacking the library books,
finally gave in, and turned off the water.

Reality

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