Water

When the water main broke, I
had a pitcher in the fridge still filled.
I drank a glass of water and made tea,
and put the rest back.
This is how it is in so many places
where the water doesn’t come to you,
but this would be the happier moment,
with the water in the glass,
the tea still steaming in the cup,
whose handle is still hot–
barely a thought of the buckets
by the door and the long walk
to the river or the hard walk back.
This feels like plenty, it feels
like gratitude. My gratitude
must wait until the river runs
back to my kitchen sink, herded
along the pipes by the men
thirstier than I, breathing
the 100 degree air, making the water run.