Drainage Ditch

Behind the first house

I can clearly remember,

a big concrete affair

with thirty degree walls,

a foot of murky water,

three feet of weeds.

When it rained

it was an exciting time:

I was young, throwing sticks

crawling with mites and ticks

and mosquito larvae. Boy,

we were tiny living

things aswarm, blood-sucking

things buoyant with nothing

on our minds, nothing at all.

There was a family

down the street with

a little girl with a heart

murmur. They whispered,

“We know she will die,”

so they let her play.

Her pacemaker strained

to keep time with her little feet

while she struggled to keep up

with her big brother, the only boy

she would ever love. Raining,

an exciting time, valves stuttering

blood in and out of her veins

along the drainage ditch.

The thirsty ditch

its vast tiny pageant

of thirsty animals

and her little feet

found the slick mud

and she fell

head over heels, her brother

turned to her gasp

as she tumbled

into a soft, slippery nest

of water moccasins.

Her family hoped

her heart attacked her

before the snakes had a go,

but I saw her brother,

his face the next day.

Her heart was never hers,

it was his from birth.

Too young to understand

such tiny, thirsty things,

he ran, fast, away.