Never have I tossed a coin
Into a fountain
With the hope that
It would somehow
Make real some dream I had,
Or grant me an unspoken wish.

I’ve only known one fountain
In my life,
And I can count
On one of my hands
The number
Of times I have seen it full
And with water flowing,
The way a fountain
Is supposed to be.

But I can’t really count
The number of times.
I don’t remember them all.
They’ve been that few.

The fountain
Is in the middle of the street.
A roundabout.
It was painted a light shade
Of blue.
It was dirty,
And empty most of the time.
I had wished it wasn’t like that.

Sam Sharpe Square,
Montego Bay,
St. James, Jamaica.
I don’t remember seeing it
The last time I went there.
Maybe because I’m so used to it there,
Maybe because it wasn’t there anymore.
After all, the road has been changed.

But the fountain
Is that dull and unattractive.
Nothing magnificent
About it at all.
It didn’t strike me
As something worth remembering.
Was is there, or was it not?


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