Time for a shower,
a quarter, a tenth.
I have the next rain
at my fingertips—
the hunt and peck,
scroll of percentiles
dialed-in
hour by hour
of the good stuff I want—
that naked clay needs
to stay alive.
Nothing’s changed.
We all hang on a forecast—
cuss the messenger
who gets paid
when he’s wrong
or claims he’s right.
It is our nature
where a man’s word
is everything.
drycrikjournal 