Down the Throat of Drought
by Benjamin Myers


Drawn to the window by sound
like rain beginning drop by slow drop,

I find only the plock of grasshoppers
thumping vinyl siding, a crowd

of brown hibiscus nodding like idiots
in dry wind. I have been a long time

dry, & my rebar is beginning
to show. I’m looking at a long tin shed

like a broken-backed mule, three empty
cans of Coors Lite floating

on the Queen Anne’s lace that lines
the drainage ditch. Down the road

the balding veterinarian walks
through double glass doors out his clinic,

stands by the mailbox, smoking
in his burgundy scrubs. It’s almost

11:00. The sun has been dragged
like an old stump from its socket & nearly

halfway across a tinny sky. Cars move
through thin light and are gone.

All morning a dead friend has been rising
closer to the surface of my mind, like a splinter

left to work its own slow way out of flesh.






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