Wet Cement

Old Mrs. Henderson's lawn

gets its daily drink.

The sprinkler head, a steady arc,

spits water, doesn't think.

It hits the same gray patch of street,

then pulls it back, slow.

A manufactured kind of beat,

a rhythm I don't know.

The water makes the pavement dark,

a wet, predictable stain.

Just doing its job, a dull mark.

Then fades. Then comes again.