Water Bowl

Dec 18 2019

The water bowl is empty again.

The dogs let me know

by the sound of their tongues

drilling hard through the bottom,

as if water's down there

dry or not.

Or as if they were prophets, back in Bible days,

and that with enough fervency, and faith

a spring would gush from the desert.

So strong and determined

they've left a permanent dent.

And by the sound of scraping

now that the rubber-rimmed bottom

has long rotted off;

metal

scuffling across the rough porcelain floor

calling attention to my neglect,

like a cacophonous hymn

from a tone-deaf choir.

Fresh water

essential for life.

If only the dogs could figure out faucets

and serve themselves.

But then, if they had thumbs

they'd probably be out the door

maybe out on the highway

flagging down cars,

looking for a better human

more faithful servant

good provider.

I'm kidding, of course

this is their forever home.

No wandering in the wilderness

parting of seas.

And after all, the water here is fine

the commandments optional.

And who owns whom, exactly?

Am I the owner and master,

or is it the dogs

whose gentleness and innocence

will save us in the end?

Who know all they are called upon to do

is keep their thoughts pure

and make a joyful noise

and the bowl will fill itself.