Encroacher

The Puddle

There is a puddle.

It's tiny, small and ripples with every drip that drops down from the damp, drooping ceiling up above.

It's white--like every other floor-tile, room or wall--and glossy. Not like the sparkling water, colored blue and named the ocean that once decorated the pages of the picture books I'd been read as a child.

I watch it sometimes, from across the room, but never, ever, do i disturb it.

No one but me shows much concern.

The women in yellow tell me i shouldn't be worried. That "The leak is just... just a hiccup in the pipes, dear."

That "We should have some very nice men coming over to fix it right up, so.. so don't you worry your little head ."

That "in the meantime you haven't even touched your math. I say, how do you ever expect to learn if you're always asking questions?"

"I tell you, time and time again! The water shouldn't rise and higher than your little pinky-toes, if that!" they would say.
Let alone rise above your head! The chances of you drowning in that.. that room... is, is less likely than that of you winning the lottery! Now get back to work!"

When i tell them that's too bad they give me a strange look. But that's only because they misunderstand.

I never said a thing about drowning.