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Poem

Water is uniquely ancient, yet it hasn’t aged a day.
It’s older than Dr. Leakey’s bones. 
Older than Olduvai Gorge.
Water is older than life itself,
Unaltered by evolution’s chaotic ebb and flow.
Undiminished, though redistributed,
Surviving every mass extinction,
While continually redeeming itself through the sacred trinity 
Of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation. STOP!

All the water that exists today is all the water ever was, 
Lapped at by pterodactyls and mastodons. 
Slurped down. Pissed out. 
Recycled over countless generations,
And though polluted, can ever be made clean,
Giving blood, and sweat, and tears
Their most obvious property:
An aqueous disposition at room temperature. STOP!

Water raining down. Water drying up.
Raining down. Drying up. 
I naively let it fill my cup,
Conformed to the shape of my emptiness, 
Because that’s the American way.
All or nothing at all. Love it or leave it alone. STOP!

Now I’m a wallflower every social hour,
Where cup half full and cup half empty
Cut the rug like Fred and Ginger. STOP!

My cup is full, but my dance card’s empty.
There’s no one here to even tempt me.				
Billy Idol sang a song about that issue. STOP!
				
Hard water. Rock hard.
Hey, Culligan man! STOP!

AND WE HAVE A WINNER!

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