Dry

As the homeless man digs through the garbage,
a shiny red beacon of industrial success
breathes next to him.
It's chrome legs shake with power
and currency flows from it's lungs.
And every morning I see the same man
seeking something to eat
in what others would refuse
next to the promise of progress.

And the day you left again
I never mentioned how dry I became.
My skin cracked and mouth wouldn't open,
blood stopped pumping.
Suddenly it hurt to believe in anything.
And anything called a soul
just couldn't survive.

We wait for spring like the second coming of Jesus,
we wait for the rains to bring back
what was once called a worthy life.
How simple water can seem
until it is gone.