A Plumber on Thanksgiving

Peeled skins from

White and red and sweet potatoes

Are in a titanic clash

With the garbage disposal.

Like the web of a spider, 

Congealing into a giant blockage.

Brown, murky, dirty water

Backing up into the sink.

Luckily, he is on call.

A little heavyset, backwards baseball cap,

Sweating profusely, under the sink,

Butt crack on display.

Like a drivers ed student

Behind the wheel for the first time.

Uncertain, labored, cautious, confused.

Cursing under his breath.


The metal snake has devoured its prey,


The sink is draining again.

He confesses this is the first time

He has ever made a house call.

Luckily, he did.

John H. Johnson is a writer and entrepreneur who lives in Northern Virginia.   His poetry focuses on quirky everyday life events, and he is also the author of the book “Everydata: The Missing Information in the Little Data You Consume Every Day.”   

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