Four phobic pairs pinning for traction on
a misty stoneware tyrant failed again.
The faucet turns, the water nears – she’s gone
up corners with frantic fear of the wet drain.
In tumbling starts and tiny toils she tries
for life, still humid heights and fluent flows
hound her round her splashing, spiraling demise.
Her life’s a game that’s played with my god-hose,
that’s aimed enough to trouble, not quite drown.
If weary, I’ll wash her way when I’m done.
The littlest thirst had likely teased her down,
whence god-hand guided waters forbid her to run.
Then, pinned to the side where she tiredly crept,
she refused the cruel sport, and down she leapt.