Parched now always and resentful of it,
why consume to stay alive, again?
Faucet humming like a mystic drone,
"come closer," what? "come closer, come here, come."
Parched still (always) and it's dreadful, is it?
Eye up on the swan-curved nozzle's tip,
head craned so to see the light within.
The light? Yes light, not darkness, no, but light!
The eye upon the nozzle spies a tunnel
(still parched though, always, desperate for a drink)
and through the tunnel such familiar roads,
that tears flow with the fresh that floods the face.
So parched and pissed off waiting to be slaked,
this infrastructure fiction skipping steps,
this sci-fi sight of home erases labor,
this fantasy of water in the home.
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