It’s so easy here as I turn the tap
and fill the clean glass with pristine water,
mind on my work, that I forget that map
of Zimbabwe I studied last week, where
purifying chemicals have vanished
and water table has fallen like a
chuteless skydiver, their children famished,
their relentless covid a miasma,
yet taking backseat to cholera. I
had vowed to pray for them each time I sip,
whisper thank you and oh please help in my
single breath. So selfish, you see, they slip
my mind: both my suffering kind, their pain,
and our invisible giver of rain.
Roger Armbrust
August 18, 2020
