Out of Town

Years later, the water still drips—

there's no one to tighten the valve.

It courses through old pipes

down to the septic tank.

Next morning in the cellar

I start the motor with a stick.

It shakes and rumbles, and chirps—

the switch is broken is all.

At night the water arrives

illegally, undergroundly,

to the very grave where

last spring parsley sprouted,

and at the foot, beside it,

feral sorrel darkens

tastily and tartly

like clandestine sex.

The motor lifts the spirits

and returns the night's deductions.

It's morning, I hum softly—

a stranger will replace me.

In the cellar a stream of light

rinses the window grate,

it pulses, strikes the meter—

I catch my rhythm on the stairs.

And for memory's sake I hum—

as I pass the septic tank—

a fluid, underground song

about sorrel and a stranger.