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Here is what is getting me down to it tonight:

It’s good. I’m feeling a quick and funky poem tonight:

It Was the Ficus

It was the ficus! Not a busted pipe at all, just a dried out plant siting on top of a vent upstairs, and both he and I took turns killing the ficus with large doses of water from the girls’ water bottles every single night when they wanted “new fresh, now”, until it all spilled over and came bursting through the bathroom ceiling. This makes lots more sense, given that we could not figure out where that pipe could possibly exist up there. It was the Ficus, of course, that stupid houseplant, sitting up there on top of the carpeted vent, just being a receptacle and pleasant piece of of greenery, of course, the thing that caused the ceiling to close-collapse was the Ficus, what a stupid plant we inherited by virtue of mortgage, what a seriously stupid plant that caused the leak and that was the least possible worry sold when we fell in deep love for this moneypit house by the creek that we hold dear onto and plan work on, and on, and on.


So, it was our fault, for watering the giant plant too much. I curse that plant. Goodnight, poemfriends. Happy Tuesday!