White Water

​It's gonna work this time.
The die-cast metal promise
posted above the porcelain
basin always made us forget
it never worked before. We pumped
the chrome handle until our hands
gave out trying to get a taste of blue
or to see an orange arc. The corroded
spigot dribbled nothing but plain water.
We tried all summer, even though
we knew the sign, colored only,
must not be right.

​American Journal of Poetry, Volume 2, 2017