I hate changing water.
Every third day
the bottle runs empty
and I’m filled with dismay.

The empty bottle is there
high on the bench
staring at me
like I’m a kitchen wench.

It bubbles, says plolop –
the water is gone.
It taunts me to change it.
I’m a mere sad pawn.

With a groan and a sigh
I give the bottle a wash.
It’s time for a new one
but I’ll lose half in the slosh.

I hoist up the bottle –
all nineteen litres.
From my shoulder I chuck it
to the container; it teeters…

With one final hoist
it goes over the edge,
upside down in the dispenser
perched on the ledge.

And with the now full bottle
I cook with glee
anything with water,
no worries for me.

Because I don’t have to change it
for at least a few days…
But-oh-how I wish for town water
T’would be a novel craze.