If I were Thirsty

At Giuseppe’s bar, on the ochre banks of a muddy Arno
just down the way from Michelangelo’s naked David,
it’s poured in heavy bottomed, thin, flute glasses,
already sweating,
like the day’s tourists.

From Baghdad to Nasiriyah, as the sun goes down, gritty with sand,
bottles wrapped in mummified plastic are offloaded
to desperate city dwellers,
who never asked that their thirst be quenched by infidels.

In Washington, apathetic citizens dutifully switch on landscape sprinklers,
set by timers, on the requisite odd or even, Tuesday or Thursday
to give sup to manicured lawns
or perhaps to wash in absolution
for sins committed.

If this were the last night of the world,
and I found your lips cracked and parched.

I think I would offer you champagne.

Better to drink a monk’s stars
than swallow a politician’s economics.

Lynda Clowers

If you've any comments on this poem, Lynda Clowers would be pleased to hear from you.