The Run on the Bank

Damen O'Brien

Water pours down our street’s gutters, talking excitedly 

like children let out of school at the end of the year:

our neighbour drains his pool, pouring out the thirst

of nations. On the slick slopes of the Duncans’ yard,

children take turns diving down the slip-and-slide, 

sopping it dry with each pass, the bottom a mess

of bubbly mud, twitching beetles, razor blade grass.

In Mariah’s rustic garden, fortified by a six

foot fence, the sprinkler sputters a skipping rope

of water over her lawn and her labrador’s grinning 

head can be seen bobbing above the top of the palings

completing perfect somersaults, arabesques, tumbles.

Our other neighbour’s girls, who must be mermaids,

can be heard splashing in their small above-ground pool,

high counterpoints over their father’s patient rumble.

We sit with toes flexing in our blow-up paddling ponds,

the water dubious as tea, coronas sweating in one hand.

We’re preparing for the hottest summer ever recorded.

Inside, the shower gushes and chugs for ten minutes 

while my son cleans up from his shift. What I remember 

of this time will be different to what my children remember. 

Far away, the Thwaites glacier thaws into salt. 

What I am used to will be different to what my children 

become used to. They will be nostalgic for rain