Poem by C.S. Fuqua

Clouds tinged brown by dust
hover above tourists who’ll roam
the city rather than mountain slopes,
their skis propped in hotel corners.
Don’t waste water signs
at every sink, toilet, and fountain
remind them of what they’re missing.
The pool guy’s hose
streams precious water
through the hotel parking lot
into the street
as he takes a smoke break,
grinning at the people
who spill from their rooms
to complain about the early heat
and lack of pretty snow,
asking desk clerk,
“When’s that man going to finish
so we can at least have a good swim?”

C.S. Fuqua’s books include White Trash & Southern: Collected Poems, The Swing: Poems of Fatherhood, Walking after Midnight: Collected Stories, the SF novel Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, Hush, Puppy! A Southern Fried Tale (children’s), and Native American Flute Craft, among others. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications such as Year’s Best Horror Stories XIX, XX and XXI, Pudding, Pearl, Chiron Review, Christian Science Monitor, Slipstream, The Old Farmer’s Almanac, The Writer, and Honolulu Magazine.

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