waiting for the pot to fill

it was a flat roof,

one spout in each front corner,

clogged always

with leaves and debris,

the hot square of metal

tarred

once in the 1950s

set over

a block building with two

doors,

two residences,

and when it rained, rained

hard,

for not hours, but for

days,

the roof would leak.

my mother would find every

pot not used

from the kitchen

and set them beneath

the endless drips,

each child in charge of

emptying

his or her chosen vessel.

i remember watching

my pot fill,

wanting to be the first

to dump it out

the broken screen of the

broken

window.