Down here, it’s a waiting game

Up there, somewhere, a fat lip

Of water bulges, glistens, trembles

On the rim, almost, almost

 

Down here, each man has a job

The engineer builds pumps and walls

The grave-maker raises crypts of brick

The cornet player wails all night long

 

Out on the Gulf, barges are moving

Steaming toward us, circling the drain

And at every sunset we pause, listening

For the splash, the spreading ripple, the end.

Below Sea Level

© Pepper Trail