Modes of Apathy

Today I am a body of water, not quite with the lung capacity of a river or sea.
You will find me coming and going, the leftovers of a rare So-Cal storm, already sinking into your local pothole.

I’m a mut of mud, rain, and neglect, every now and then infused with urine from
the neighborly dogs.

And I’ve read once about piss poisoning the earth, but have also been told that urine is sterile, and can disinfect a light wound when applied directly.

But I cannot be any less or more than a familiar road on a familiar street, which for some reason you look forward to seeing on your morning stroll because my being there asserts a belief you have that everything is as it should be.

That comfort I provide, though never pronounced through more than a stare, overshadows the murky water which describes my skin.

I’ll be thinking of ways to escape,
I’ll be sipping at the sky to ensure my survival,
And I’ll continue to lay my head on the gravel bed I am to call home.

But while I ponder and squeeze the clouds between my eyes, I’ll equally hope to see you every day, blinking past my general direction, with the same childish excitement that accompanies the weak bladders of puppies who chance upon my territory.

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