Elegy for Arizona Ditch
Abandoned canals ought to be left alone—
allowed to brood
like superfluous old men—
a place for scrub brush and its inhabitants
to hunker down out of the wind.
They’re not meant to die like this one—
scoop loaders, graders, and Cats,
lit up and howling, work all night
to inter it, ASAP,
under its own banks.
You’d expect it to be filled in—
not now, but ultimately
by the drift of post-apocalyptic dust
like its distant cousins on Mars.
No need to hurry in a dead world.