Parched Dreams Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

"Parched Republic of Dreams"


We declared a border where the dry well cracked,
elected officers from men who could no longer swallow,
and minted coins from rusted washers.

By noon, the flag had rotted in the heat.
No water came through the irrigation ditches,
only the dry hiss of cicadas demanding tribute.

We governed what remained:
three acres of thistles,
a ledger filled with forgotten names,
and the collective right to stare at the horizon
until our eyelids scraped with salt.






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