The Watertower - Poem by Caroline Misner
I see your small hand is pink;
it rests in mine, a perfect cup
of water from which to drink.
The watertower rises like a gravid
spider, a swollen water sack
bugling like a tumour from her back.
The world below it hunches in inconsequence,
the houses grind on with life’s business,
each roof a separate shingle; tufts
of treetops sprout between them
like grass through the sidewalk cracks.
Behind each door whole families
digest their young, bite by bite,
and lamps wink on like stars
in contempt of the skulking night.
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