Pump primed
A squeal of metal as rust crumbles
Groaning and gurgling with effort
The flow forced from hiding
By my energy

a trickle,
a sputter,
a gush

Warm, murky with sediment
No clear and cool refreshment, this
I will continue the motions
Wetting the ground with my efforts
Until the output is fit to consume

I watch the
parade of
trivialities line
up like
hemlock,
like mad dogs
yipping at
my ankles.

I'm too
crafty for them.
I laugh and
yawn
and watch
my cats play with
an electric fish.

The truth
lies
in the mouth
of a politician

Love is a loaner armchair
Low enough to relax me
Built to embrace me
With arms that support me
While I return to my book
And sup hot tea

Take this blank canvas
and make it your masterpiece
with pops of color

your eyes still look familiar
but the looks they give me now are foreign