The Well

There is a Well in the middle of the Desert, about a mile away,
with a cute little roof and a bucket that goes to the depths of nowhere.
The Well hasn’t produced water in many years,
possibly never.

But I trudge there.

Early morning I gather my vessels,
and carry my heavy expectations on my shoulders.
This time there will be water.
The hope, no, the need, for that to be true
spurs me on my mission.

Through the sand and the heat I bulldoze forward.
No rest, no pause,
No notice of others on the path, or the scenery, or the journey.

Blind Compulsion.

The Well is in sight! My mouth waters in anticipation;
The relief on the horizon that I am certain will deliver.

As if for the first time, I peer over the edge, nearly
without caution, overflowing with denial.

Shocked! I see no shimmer, not a droplet, only familiar
dust and sand a hundred years old.

Resentment wells up inside me.

Enraged, I throw my load to the ground and
curse the Well out loud; I threaten, scream and beg,
Howl my mercy cry to the silence.

The travel back is brutal, swimming in
Remorse and shame;

How could I be so stupid, my trust in that damned and useless Well.

I crawl over the threshold of my starting place, exhausted.

I will try again tomorrow.

-Addiction