Water meter.

Ballad of the Water Meter

In the darkness beneath stair step six,
where no one looks, no man, no gès,
there lives a turntable, wet with regret,
who whispers: “You forgot me again today, policy.”

No ray of sunshine, no warm smile,
just drops in a plastic collar.
He counts, he counts, faithfully for years,
but receives no card, flower or condolence.

His taps are your daily song,
but you don't hear him. What a sadness.
Yet he continues to measure, without complaint—
until one day the pipes ask:

“Where is he, our water lord?”
But then he is silent. He no longer measures.

Monday.