The Revolt of the Garden Hose

by Lane Bushmeyer

It happened on a hot summer morning

after all the dew had burned off, leaving

my front lawn dry as split ends.

I gathered its worn rubber coils in one hand

and began my rounds.

It sputtered and grumbled complaints about the early awakening

but consented to dribble a warm stream

onto my flowerbed, the soil shriveled and cracked between

stooped-over plants.

I urged it to get serious with a few good shakes,

its only response a snide remark

issued with the flow from its rusted lips.

This would not do.

I turned up the pressure.

A frayed spot in its skin puckered, snapped open,

and a cheap up-spray caught me it the face.

It leaped from my hands and whipped like

a snake with a grand mal seizure, lost in a wet-mouthed rant.

It soaked me from uncombed hair

to garden crocks and pounded trenches in the soil crust,

uprooting my new pansies and scattering their shredded Mardi Gras masks.

Then it turned its rage on the front of the house

and sprayed it down before I shut the water off.

Afterward it lay in the grass muttering obscenities with

its last trickle and no doubt scheming of social movements

that would change the world.