I am

As water runs down the sides of the sink in the next room, traveling across town and underneath cul-de-sacs filled with part-time workers, a boy vomits onto a book with empty pages. Hoping that his loss for words, for meaning, for purpose finds its place among the concrete sidewalks that bleed leaves that gardeners blow away once a week.

He lets his head clear and walks to his sink and tries to fathom how far the pipes stretch. How many contribute to the same pipeline? How many more vomit uncontrollably in their rooms? Do the pipes end?

They do.

They lead to the sea where schools of fish survive their freedom until they are caught, cleaned, cut and ready for purchase at the local supermarket.

He washes his face and he stares at his book.

The right words rarely come.

The garbage man regularly comes.

Fish for dinner tonight.