This fountain is not here to slake your thirst.
The drip drip drip of the faucet drills down
Into your porcelain forehead,
Deep into the recesses of memory,
Where long buried slights and mistakes dwell.
This fountain is not here to cleanse you.
The constant thread of water spills downward,
Disappearing into a cyclone of emotion
And regret for unmendable errors.
This fountain is not here to answer your questions.
The bone dry creaking metal of the pump handle
Burrows into your soul and opens you
To doubt and pain and imagined loss.
This fountain is not for you.
I built this fountain for me alone.