What the Water Was Hiding

The fountain was drained when I walked past—

MAINTENANCE, a sign said. Nothing more.

A man in yellow gloves, built for the task

of patience, scooped the coins from the floor

of the basin into a grey bucket at his side.

They'd gone green. Clumped in the silt,

the color of old teeth. I had a ride

waiting, boots to return, a day half-built

around another errand. But I stayed.

The sound the coins made going in—

not the ring of water, something frayed,

like keys in an old coat—a thin

percussion. Whatever people wanted

when they threw them. A door

to open somewhere. Undaunted,

methodical, he tipped them. The floor

of the bucket full now. He stood,

adjusted the weight against his hip,

walked toward the service hall. I understood

nothing new. Just watched him grip

the handle, watched him go.

Then made my return.

The parking lot was the same temperature

as everywhere else.