Drought

We talked about the rain as though it sat
In some adjoining town, perhaps too drunk
To know that we had work we needed done,
Long overdue, a no good sodden sot,
The crumpled rent check wadded in his vest

And when it wouldn't come and wouldn't come
We couldn't do and couldn't raise or pay;
Farms clawed with tidy rows of brittle stalks;
Vast fields of spiky weeds rising from dust;
The twisted fruit trees barren of their yield.

There is loss, too, in that which never comes.