The wooden oak slab squeaked
On hinges well-oiled
As my hand’s sebaciousness
The molested hardwood soiled.

Thirsty, I the threshold crossed
Into the bathroom’s cloister.
Behind the blackened screen could
Be heard the crickets’ boister.

Cleanly brushing and flossing
Over the marble sink,
Stood I musing at the skies
Coloured no longer pink.

With a fresh mouth freed
Of odor and taste,
I could now savour water
And its freshness not waste.

Dampening the pump’s shaft
Where the sink should be,
I welled up my desire by
Pumping the handle lustily.

A cool stream unevenly flowed into
A coopered bucket with metal bands.
Quenching, with catharsis I drank from
The large, iron ladle in my hands.