Jack's fresh sunken step
Before cars streaming by
Like tides fussing noisely
Down the street in a distance.
Barefooted at the edje of the lawn
Itchy blades stuck to his feet are
Washed off as he empties a bucket
Pouring water thoughtlessly.
Down the sidewalk it goes
Flowing off the pavement straight
And melding with rusty souty waters
Into a gutteruous drain.
Through grated vents
Underground it continues recycled,
Where it's dirtier than up above.
Returning the bucket now Jack must
And on his way back inside a
Random thought enters his brain;
Indians talking to mountains.
He lays the bucket in his kitchen
At the farthest corner and
The bucket wasn't always there,
No the bucket rested up by the front window.
Near his front door under his only plant
That hasn't been watered in weeks
It collects water seeping, the bucket does
From up under the plant.
The bucket is elsewhere now though
It's sole use no longer adhered to,
because again puposeless he stopped
Watering, and for good this was.
The plant was not dead though, yet,
Wasn't in need of replacement.
The space was for nothing else;
He grew the plant dying.