water under the dwej

Fingers banging against the keyboard, cleaning up the mess left behind by the namesake of the old Americans. "Let's talk." This and that and that and this, profound and necessary but not relevant here. A walk to the kitchen, and a stall. A stream of water across the floor. A few more steps, deep in puzzlement. A large puddle of water. "We have water." Questions and puzzlement and puzzlement and questions. Phone calls and neighbor conversations. The start of The Mop Bucket. Arrival of the Kay Enn. Explorations and sawings and diggings and pumpings. Mop mop mop. Corrosion? Broken seal? Mop mop mop mop mop. Streaming and inching become running and puddling. Mop mop mop. All the while, explorations and much deeper puzzlement by the Kay Enn of the Dwej. Many more moppings, you know the repetition. Alas, a main has failed. Those in Morocco fare not well. We're keeping up. A promise from the big Tee Oh of arrival in a few hours. Splishing and splashing and mopping and squeegying. And even sweeping. Pause. Lettuce, hot peppers, lemon-soaked apples, and blackberries, under red wine and extra virgin. Play. Puddles to ponds, running to pouring. Verification of water spillage. The water off. Then back on, with the next powers that be to in "hours." Mopping and mopping and moving and stacking. More powers that be, diagnosing with a promise of the fourth powers of being arriving in a day. Stopping, accepting, und schlafenzeit.