Andrea Stuckey Poems
|3.||Praying For A Red Light||9/28/2006|
|4.||The Dolls Braided Her Hair||9/28/2006|
|5.||The Flowers Have Died||9/28/2006|
|8.||A Beautiful, Dying Rose||9/28/2006|
|11.||The Water Pipe||9/28/2006|
The Water Pipe
A simple task, it should seem, and followed every day,
she stumbles over cobble to pump what she can carry.
The faucet, more beautiful than anything she owns
still gives her simple, ancient water and has never failed to dry.
The pipes freeze over Winter and melt once come the Spring;
she comes to pump the water that allows her family to live.
Although hardly ten miles outside Le Château Chillon,
the monotonous work and aching feet carry shackles,
though her chains are smaller than those of Bonivard.
If only Byron could write of this spigot and how
the marble ...