Water the Plants

Sometimes I remember

to water the plants

when I see them half dead

prisoners of plastic pots

gradient shades of green turning to brown

folding up like burnt paper edges

in a slow flaming fire

branches sagging downward

limp dicked in a forced death trance

thirsty without legs

no audio

no white flag

waiting for me to remember

so they don’t

die.

That’s a big responsibility.

I can’t be trusted with plants

animals

or small children

(not to mention kitchen appliances made in Taiwan).

Someone shouts my name from across the room,

“Shawn, why don’t you water these fucking plants!?”

I turn around

see no one

my head spins left to right

back to front

but there is no one there.

I am not disturbed.

This happens a lot.

I keep everything, everyone around me on

life support.

I’ll water relationships once and awhile

spray the leaves with a gentle mist

so they appear fresher

then they actually are

and continue to muddle on

in my emotional failure.

If I had remembered to pay the water bill

I might have made it right 
with my bathtub 

my hygiene
my tiolet

my liver

my kitchen floor

not to mention the plants

and the voice in the back of my head

that keeps making demands 
against my

drought stricken soul.