While Supplies Last

When I was a child my father

Would beg us:

“Girls, turn off the tap,”

claiming supplies of clean water were limited.

“Think of future generations,” he’d tell us.
“Your children. Their children.”

“But all that rain. . . ” we’d protest. . .

“A world full of oceans. . . ”

We couldn’t possibly imagine this

truth.

Now,

I stare at dirty keys,

this blank screen,

my mind troubled,

my minor thoughts

bland and
fleeting.

I write nothing.

The dog woofs, bored, at the window.

What if words

like tap water, like

clean air

actually do
run

?