Thirst Mark

Another week, the sky a blank sheet.

Everything just dries up, slow.

No one cares until the crack

is too deep, until the last thing dies.

My sad tomato plant, the only thing

I bother with. Water, poured slow,

disappears instantly into the soil,

like it never hit. The brittle grass

crunches under my worn-out boot.

Dust coats the porch rail, thick

as bad intent. A low, distant rumble,

just the sound of a dry riverbed

shaking itself apart. And nothing

left to say but wait.