The Water Tower

Sentinel of the night
I stand mute and tethered guard over my little town,
my two eyes welded open,
my name stamped proudly on my brow.
Atop buried feet and locked knees
I perch, bulging -
my radial arms reaching deep down and under my kingdom
spreading like a star's glare
into the land they carry.

From my nest I see every sin of every citizen -
every secret love on the pack porch
every face of contempt held until the corner.
I can only give what I have.
On a groggy Sunday morn
many a poisoned man will heal
as he licks a tiny bead from my fingertip.

I see squinty-eyed boys just off the train
peering at me to point them to their aunt's house
- a marker against the crackling Beat sunset.

I give to the ashamed souls
who never show me their tired chins
(for I am old, and the wrong shade of blue against a perfect prairie sky).
They try to forget me, and all I can do to make them remember,
every now and then, just for an instant,
is stop giving.