the faucet is the saddest instrument

I have a couple poems up at Prick of the Spindle – Rioja and Faucet Song. Rioja is an older poem and the latter is part of my never-ending series of household obsession poems.

Both my husband and our aupair leave the faucet running frequently. They turn it on full blast and leave the room. They say they aren’t “leaving it on,” they’re coming back. It makes me want to scream. Sometimes I do scream, or writhe. It’s really not just plain old vanilla neurosis on my part – it’s blatant waaaaaaaste.

In response to recent submissions, I got a rejection a couple days back from Redactions, but also an acceptance for two poems from Main Street Rag – The Conservationist (“… all the ooze and diamonds of the poor …”) and I Have the Feeling You Enjoy Stress (“…slosh some vodka across the stovetop…”).

On Thursday the kids and I leave for the states for the annual U.S. vacation touching points northeast. I’m scheduled up the wazoo, which I don’t usually prefer, but it’s okay – the kids dig it. I think I’m going to have to skip Philadelphia this time and the used bookstore I love. I will try to squeeze in the Strand in NY, though. I hope.