The water watcher

The water watcher

Watching water from my perch sitting on the sky bringing the ladle to my lips and you cannot hear my screams down there down inside the terrarium where the pigeons fight for crumbs in the town square.

Drinking from a paper cup. Drinking water I stole from the board of elections table when the old woman in the carpet-bag sweater turned, with an open smile of delighted surprise (a clever joke from a real fire cracker) and holding the rims of her swooping batwing glasses, to her neighbor.

I live her inside this dark room. I pace the floors wet slate floors in bare feet. Cold and wet and squishy with a plop plop smack sound all day long, hands behind back, stupid head down, trying to pretend to try to think. So lame. Someone come help me! Someone lower a love crane and pull me up out of here. Someone someone out there, get the floodlights off and come to the small hole in the ground 100 feet above my head. I can’t see you–especially as your head obscures my only source of light. Call down to me; tell me you believe in

We don’t know who can stop the waste of life and love.

Comments are closed.