By Will Falk
there’s water, at least,
on the coast
and that’s where I’m heading
when stopped near
Petaluma, California
a sunburnt sign
hangs over a vineyard
celebrating a family
insurance business’s
longevity
the phrase,
“through the Great Depression,
the Great Recession,
and seven wars”
is typed under
the smiling faces
of men in uniform
maybe it’s my own depression
or personal poverty
that make me ponder
my own longevity
that force me to the ocean
during these times of drought
I don’t know, but
the brown coats of sheep
are sprinkled like dust
on the tree-less voids
they call hill-sides
what once flowed through here
left cattle to settle like pebbles
in the washed-out roadbed
the vultures are thirsty
winos circling the vines
by the time they get there
they’ll find only raisins
the wars I’ve seen
are water wars
and they dry my vision
leaving me to believe
wet is only an illusion
that’s not even blood
flecked on the feathers
of red-winged blackbirds
perched uneasily
on a barbed-wire fence