The last drop falls fat and slow,
To soak into chiseled cracks
And nourish the mold
Beneath artificial rock.
It drips from a thin wisp,
Sucking poison from the sky,
Dragging ash in its wake
To bleed into salted dirt.
An errant tongue might pluck
The drip from its course,
To muddy a small boy’s stomach
With a taste of rotten clouds.
The fall is unheeded,
The splash is never seen,
To herald the flood’s end
In a stillness thick with dew.
Their children fall from gutters,
Run down shivering arms,
Fingers grasp at nothing,
Waiting for one more drop.
Corey Laisure 