It's not poetry. I serve the two masters of poetry and fiction about equally, though, so I'll mention the story and leave it alone from there.
Crater was asleep on the couch when he heard a tub thumping black noise in his dream. He knew the sound was real the way you know in any dream, you wake up panting, feeling for your jeans, hoping it’s not the end of the world. He wondered what day it was. Having no job, he didn’t think about it much.
“Cass. What the fuck you doing?” Crater stood up and hopped into his pants on his way to the bathroom. Cass had upended half of a plastic 55 gallon drum into the old claw foot tub. Three bags of ice lay on top of the toilet like bags of broken glass, next to four cases of beer on the floor among the dust bunnies, bought from the generic store, in white cans with black lettering, and marked BEER..