Poem: The Water Bucket

"I miss my water bucket,"
I think,
and my tears begin to pour.
The water bucket is the key that unlocks them,
one day later.
My face feels sticky
and I want to wash it
in my scented water bucket.
But it doesn't exist any more;
It burned with everything else.
There is no water around here,
That is why it was special.
My face will just have to stay sticky,
for now.
I cry and cry and cry.

The water bucket.
Leads to a hundred other
habits and routines
which are now dead.
Like gathering firewood
and washing dishes on my deck.
Dead with my shack.

I still have $18.40 non-refundable
on my laundro-mat credit card.
But no clothes to wash.

I loved that house
and everything I put into it.
It's gone, now.
Really and truelly gone.

Forever.