Saturday

Wet


Our bodies have been civilized.

We have become
obedient to the rain.

We have surrendered
to the low moan of
a drenched cow
shuddering
through wet winds
through wet trees.

We have surrendered
to the overly-sensitive
solenoid switch that cranks
but will not turn.

We have become domesticated,
fenced by wet grasses strewn,
heavily seeded, along our walkways.

By the froth of tire-churned
water's ebb and flow
we have been bound
to the warm dry house.

The revolution has been postponed.