[First appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, Fall 2014]
My well runs deep and dry;
broken glass among the rocks,
the occasional coin, some sad soul’s wish
left in the company of cold, dry, stone.
I would if prompted recount a fiction
of strangers passing, full buckets, and refreshment;
of the joys of spring, a shaded canopy
and welcome offerings.
Redact the sunlit horror
of spitting children and the piss
of careless parents.
Their monstrous visage increased by time;
lifelessly growing, refusing to die
with fonder recollection; lost,
like meager moisture hoarded,
hidden, then dried.