My neighbor’s sprinkler head goes
plish plish plish plish…
The voice on the radio warns me:
they will rise up and destroy us.
The voice on the radio reveals:
they poison our water with more water.
The voice on the radio speaks clearly:
we can’t wait any longer.
Can’t wait any longer.
Can’t wait.
We can’t.
Can’t.
I come out of the garage.
He’s ripping through the soft dark brown
of his flower garden
with a gleaming trowel.
He squints up at me and
wants to ask why I’m holding
a lawn mower blade in my gloved hands.
This won’t get any easier
so I won’t wait: ah.
We can’t wait any longer.
Can’t wait any longer.
Can’t wait.
We can’t.
Can’t.
My arm is numb, my hands stiff.
I can’t open my fingers.
Gloves are wet and sticky.
I shouldn’t have worn a white shirt.
I shouldn’t have worn these blue pants.
And the sprinkler head goes
plish plish plish red
plish plish white shirt
plish plish plish blue pants
plish plish plish plish plish plish red…
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