Balancing in the Wind

A sunny Friday morning

In the drought-stricken suburbs

Of the southwestern desert,

And the plague has not yet killed

One person in this county,

Having sickened a thousand,

And the sprinklers are working,

And the wind is in the leaves,

And robins hop on the wall,

And the traffic is steady

Out by the dusty highway

Where construction continues

On a new subdivision,

And the reservoir’s lower

But it hasn’t dried up yet,

And the hospital is full,

But a check of morning news

Says no, no one’s died there yet—

Well, of course people have died,

But at least not from the plague,

And water runs from the tap.