Not all wells are tapped. Some draw sufficient
to run a hose to a house, the low sulfur cloud
a mark of the wet-mouth advantaged. As if that’s
not enough, they buy the sprays in shades
like police-tape yellow or this-is-not-yours red,
so I can’t believe The Kid who, in broad Tuesday light,
slinks under sills to unscrew nozzles and tug
the umbilical weight of rushing water all the way
to his mother’s corroded truck bed, where they go
to work. She, bent over like she’s burying a sin;
The Kid with arms raised revival, pouring whatever
don’t spill at the air into their drought tank.
My mother, hairnet tied fist-tight at the back,
was made to cook; she left early, returned late,
and dark raced dark in her shift. That was the days
of commissaries, when sharing was plenty. The Kid
don’t know those days. Love is funny, in that it’s dead
but not dead.