San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly

CARL HARMON

Leaky Bucket

You’ve asked me to carry water for you,
To chop your wood and stoke your fires,
To wash and dry your dirty laundry
And raise your rotten wilding kids,
To fight your wars and feed your pets,
To hunt your dragons and pay your bills,
And to listen to your lilting little lies….

But you’ve asked me to carry water
In a cracked and leaky bucket,
And you asked me to chop your wood
With a dull and blunted axe,
And you’ve given me clothes to wash
Without soap in dirty water,
And you asked me to plow your fields
With a broken stick and a crippled cow.

And to hunt these dragons and kill these bears
While you’re twisting my rifle into a knot,
And you’ve given me wastrel children to teach
Who already know it all, know everything.
And you’ve killed the golden goose
In this golden state of the promised land,
And you’ve asked me to carry water
And give you a hand.

I won’t carry any more water, any milk or any wine,
In your cracked and leaky bucket full of lies.
I won’t wash your dirty laundry, chop your wood or plow your fields
In decaying burning cities full of lies.
We won’t hunt your dragons, raise your kids, and fight your wars anymore
In this sinful sinking country full of lies.