If I were Thirsty
At Giuseppes bar, on the ochre banks of a muddy Arno
just down the way from Michelangelos naked David,
its poured in heavy bottomed, thin, flute glasses,
like the days tourists.
From Baghdad to Nasiriyah, as the sun goes down, gritty with
bottles wrapped in mummified plastic are offloaded
to desperate city dwellers,
who never asked that their thirst be quenched by infidels.
In Washington, apathetic citizens dutifully switch on
set by timers, on the requisite odd or even, Tuesday or
to give sup to manicured lawns
or perhaps to wash in absolution
for sins committed.
If this were the last night of the world,
and I found your lips cracked and parched.
I think I would offer you champagne.
Better to drink a monks stars
than swallow a politicians economics.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Lynda Clowers would be pleased to hear from you.