WETTING THE IVY
I can’t stand people who love certainty,
but I’m definite about how I want the ivy watered.
You can begin by filling the sitting-room samovar,
and then both of us will lug it outside.
We’re going to accidentally spill it at the base
of the stucco wall, and you could do far worse
than to take your cue from me: when I
exclaim “oops!” and suddenly lower and drop
my end of the samovar, you best follow suit,
and we’ll both jump back and watch
the silver top fly open, and I’m sure as anything
the water inside isn’t going to procrastinate,
‘won’t hesitate a moment to flood a small area,
‘won’t hesitate a second to soak the swell ivy.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.