While stretching my neck,
I notice water dripping from the ceiling
And a puddle on the floor
Beside the rowing machine.
It trembles with each added droplet
As if nature is coming,
Stomping like an immortal T-Rex
Down the blue plain of sky,
And clawing through the brief
Manmade roof,
Crafting a river,
Drop by drop,
That will reclaim the rower
And float it back to its banks—
Where rowing things belong—
So it could cradle
A father and son,
A lunch pail,
And a harmonica
That tastes like beer.
