The Old Pump
Pappap’s well, one time, held Pappap—
down that deep dark hole, harnessed by ropes,
each foot braced on its rocky sides,
fixing something or other, while whistling.
An odd childhood memory to have, but
that well also held a deep supply of water
and more memories of pumping the iron handle
until water poured out when we were thirsty;
or when our hands were dirty from playing
or garden work; or battleship gray from
painting porches, cupboards and picnic tables.
I can still hear the screech, screech, sploosh
and the happy laughter of children getting wet.
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