By Charles Broughton
Come take a sip
from I, the poisoned well.
Toss the bucket
into my cobblestone maw
and quench the pain
with my elixir of love
like drinking honey
suckled from the
wrinkled dugs of Christ.
Rest your head on my lip
and listen for the pitter patter whispers
crawling up my throat
to remind you that
it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.
Does a well water
when there’s no one to drink it?
If only you could bottle me up
and take me with you.
Don’t drink me all at once.
I am the oasis until
the parched are no more
having sucked and lapped
me dry save the poison
that coagulates where once
compassion lay for the thirsty.
But I’m fixed to this infection
of involuntary apathy
with nothing to offer
save a glass of water.