The old one lies dead nearby,
a 50-foot limp gray snake,
all the air having left its body
after years in the back yard.

I have not been able to remove it.
What do you do with a hose
pierced dozens of times by the teeth
of thirsty raccoons? Throwing it
in the garbage can seems so
disrespectful for something
that gave such good service,
was such a faithful companion.

A week ago the kind veterinarian
cradled Poki’s limp body in a towel
after the final shot, her plaintive cry
stilled, on the way to becoming
ash and earth.

Now I screw the old nozzle
onto the new hose, mindful
to get it straight, to not strip
the delicate gold spirals
circling its shiny end.

I turn on the faucet, and, rather
than having to wait for the water
to inflate the old hose, the new one
shoots into the morning air
a fine spray through its squirter,
which I train on three small pots
atop the deck, their residents
undoubtedly in need of a drink.

Later, I will gather up the old hose,
thank it for its service, and take up
the new one. Other thirsty neighbors
are waiting—hollyhocks, irises,
African daises—those early bloomers
already risen from last season’s
leavings without prompting,
without any help from me.