The Well

I crank the arm once more
And watch the frayed rope
Spool around the center rod
Faster than normal.
My parched lips seek moisture
That my tongue can’t supply.
That’s why there’s this well.
The effort I put forth
Ranks less than usual,
As the heft seems lacking,
And I’m worried.
The bucket arrives.
No sloshing. No dripping.
No water.
My thirst will wait.
My thirst must wait.