Bring about a second war,
or pack up - and go home.
We can't accept apologies
from Sicily or Rome.

We can't impart cartography
to mayors without maps.
And no one wades the rivers here,
and water fills the cracks.

And water, liquid power naps,
repels us at the coast,
But draws us in at pipeline ends
and haunts us like Dad's ghost.

I died sometime, the future came,
and everybody smirked
and asked me, while we waited
for my casket, if it hurt.