Time of Drought, 1975 

                        of a California century gone, 
              a state too golden; the sun 
      flaming without spots. By night, earth 
resting under its own shadow, but no cloud 
                        to water California. 

                        Crouched in the back seat of a Plymouth, 
                            windows down, 
     eight miles west of legislation, 
crossing clay dikes of Yolo Causeway 
     (no rice for the port this year), 
             sat Governor Jerry and a poet 
                        from Grass Valley. 

                        The governor was to recommend 
bricks of plastic that inflate 
     to take up space in toilet tanks, 
          the poet to pronounce aloud 
               that word as "drouth," 
                     leaving tongue thick 
                            on palate. 

                                        - Richard Hacken