once the river has run dry
there comes a day
when nothing is left
not a single drop of water
not a scrap of this
or a piece of that
not a solitary thought
lingering in the air
nobody is home
to answer the phone
it rings off & on
for days on end
until eventually
ceasing to exist
what will become
of this place
once the pintails have
run out of bread
and the river has run dry
december two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
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