While Puerto
Rico Cries
Beth Oast Williams
You lift up your boats to the lord
so barnacles won’t weigh them down
their hulls cracked dry from days
of being out of water.
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Nothing to drink will kill you
just like yachts left to rot
their tanks not empty of gas
but no one to run them.
You wouldn’t throw a thirsty man
a roll of paper towels
while he kneels at the rail
longing for the cold chalice on his lips.
The sea connects your misery
as taps waste your daily drink.
Carry the bucket to the needy
and wash your hands of greed.