Delilah she comes slowly dripping down into her own
little puddle again. Old percolator we call her.
Sometimes we aren’t very nice I guess, but she doesn’t
seem to mind. Said she only left the grounds behind
her — or above her — or wherever it is she goes.
Drip, drip, drip. “A purer blend,” she says. Of what
I’d like to know. “Refined,” she says, “I know who I
am now.” Maybe, I say to myself. All I know is that her
puddle still feels the same, and it still splashes itself into
a hundred tiny droplets that can’t find their way home
and dry up in the sun, when anybody steps on it real hard.
And if you only step gentle and soft-like, well, it only soaks
your foot. And I never did like wet feet. I think that’s why
Duckfoot bothers me so much sometimes. All he ever does
is go around stepping in people’s puddles and getting his
feet wet. We were going to put a stop to it awhile ago, not being
able to see much sense in it, but those in the puddles didn’t seem
to mind so we let it go by. As long as he doesn’t hurt anybody I guess
it’s OK. Sometimes though, that danmed Duckfoot’ll get into one
of his outrages over some silly thing or other go out ‘puddle-stomping’
(as he calls it) with a vengeance. Then half the day all you hear is SssssPLASH,
ssssPLasH, ssssPPPPlASH!. I just can’t sleep through noise like that. I don’t know how
those in the puddles can stand it. Well, I guess there’s a purpose to it all somwhere.
You won’t catch me sayin it though. ……