What's piling up in our city sewers?

I was standing in
the bathroom the other day
watching the wall on the other
side of the window
daydreaming,

recalling the faces and memories
of the past, drifting in and out of
experiences,

tho I can't for the life of me
remember now if they
were happy or sad, I smiled tho,
several times,

and I know that I wanted
to write about them
and made mental notes

the poster on the bathroom wall
melted like burning wax,
it was the summer heat and sweat
gliding to congeal on the floor,

I washed my hands and face in the sink,

and burdened with those thoughts I
carried them to my room
like rolled maps and old tomes
tucked tightly between my arms,
pieces seeping, dripping out onto the floor
tumbling down the stairs,

I tried to save as much as I could,
as they splattered the hardwood
and leaked through the boards,

I listened as they hit the living room floor
the rugs, the conquistador,
I heard them wash up
against the front door like unstoppable
tides, sat at my desk and imagined them
coating the sidewalk, rushing for the sewer
to vanish forever in the mud and gunk
beneath the brown streets,

holding my breath
until the sound abated, I remained
still in my seat, frozen, delirious,
my daydreams flushed and gone
in the darkness of the city two
stories down,

finally after the last sweet memory
had been sucked into the void below,
I  pulled the string hanging from my ceiling fan,
cutting the lights, and threw myself onto the bed
to watch the invisible specks of dust
collecting in the corners of my eyes
until I could sleep,

time careened imperceptibly forward,
hung like twisted vines from gray clouds
I remembered seeing on another night long ago,
a night without stars or moons or sound,

On the afternoon of the next day
I wrote this poem.