Thursday, January 14, 2021



I tapped into an aquifer and built a stone well

With a ratcheting windlass hoist

That lowered a dangling oaken bucket.

I liked to lean over the void

And listen to beaded drops

Plop into the black depths.

All day I wait in the blistering sun

Until I’m a dried out husk

Of flesh and leathery tongue.

I wave at the people who pass

But cannot speak. I exhale

Hot air like exhaust

That burns my blood caked lips.

It's not time to lower the bucket,

It’s not quite time yet,

I say and I say and I say,

Imagining the cold shock

Of brackish water coating

The back of my mummified throat.

Soon enough becomes my fate.

I don’t want to waste.

It’s enough to know 

I have it if I need it.

Even when it’s too late.


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