The old water tower once stored
every drop we lived on. Its walls
dark-capped brick beige as
supermarket pantyhose still rise
erect astride the main drag
where our road splits between
opposing camps. On this side
everything gone as long as anyone
remembers and winter still cold
as it’s ever been. On the other side?
Listen. You’ve always had the broadest
swath of the river, friend. Thing is: we’re
still here. Whatever else you’ve got left—
well—let us stay parched. G’head, I dare you: