The ceiling started leaking during a hard rainstorm at work today. I wrote a poem about it...

“Bucket”

Between the blades of a broken fan,
The cracked ceiling leaks fat droplets to the floor,
Deepening the maroon of carpet where it lands.
The cook brings a bright green bucket,
Squarish, plastic, and ugly, to
Catch the water as it falls.

Thumping slow then swift, then slow
Again,
Water falls through the old ceiling.
Outside, rain sings a million melodies
Of fleeting chimes as thunder cries in applause.
Inside drops hit the bucket, drive me insane.

The sign reads closed to me, I’m trapped
Inside by work, but we’re open to the world.
Eat sushi beneath our broken ceiling and
Leave a good tip. “Would you like more tea?”
I’m trying to work.
But the sound makes me want to punch something,
Hard and painful.

The corner of the bucket rests on dark maroon,
Stained by dripping rainwater. I sigh and roll my eyes,
Adjusting the bucket to catch both leaks.
Confused, the cook examines it when she passes by,
Carrying clean dishes to the Chinese restaurant next door.

Thunderous drops continue, and I notice the glass tip jar
Remains empty, bare of even a dollar. Few came in today;
Only the rain wants any sushi, but
We gave it a plastic bucket instead.

Violent urges no longer plague me, and
When I listen, neither does the plop of rain into bucket.
The only rain falling now slides off the roof, down to the
Dark street outside.