A one litre cup of, call it a quart,

is leaking, cracks so fine we cannot

in truth point here and here. Civic shame,

the hose, now PVC, held limply, starts

to refill from the four corners of the—

and even our own broad acres.


We turn on or off the news that isn’t,

roll daily newspapers into logs,

straighten our masks or wigs as we

go to the A & P, where TV shows

their faces, through the steel bars

of our garden’s fence,

apples bitten, half-bitten, strewn cores

at our door’s welcome sign,

already dangling on its last nail.