The Schedule

Six in the morning, the sprinkler starts.

He's out with his coffee, half-awake,

watching the water find its part—

the same dead patch that heat won't take.

Three days of this. Same arc. Same ground.

The grass stays brown. It doesn't spread.

He waters anyway without a sound,

knowing what's living and what's dead.

I wonder if it matters anymore,

if showing up is its own kind of prayer,

if he knows the grass won't restore

but does it anyway because it's there.

Tomorrow at six he'll turn the valve.

I'll hear the hiss across the fence.

He'll stand and watch the water halve

the daylight. It will make no sense.

And that will be exactly right.