Water ran out. The pipes were dry. 
There was no telling whether
The faucet was close or open. 
Just tightly turned clockwise or counter-
Clockwise. I still live there, waiting
For random rations or rain. Fooling myself 
Of this impermanence. The plumbing 
Brittle: from moss to dust to decay. I stay
And rot as the dirt engulf me. On lucky days, 
I bathe. At my luckiest, I am clean, 
And at my lowest, I write.