|
Pole Fishing
Muggy evenings I drive
here, park the customized
van, roll myself slowly
dockside. If I shift
my heart off a kickstand,
a drizzly breeze massages
my temples, a Kawasaki
1200 wedges my thighs.
I'm zipping by sorghum
fields smelling sweet,
hammer lane open. Amber
caution light blinking
is useless. A Peterbilt
lugging a load of pulp
pine shuffles across.
Twin to a crash dummy,
my helmet a windblown
head of red hair, I'm
replaying CCR's "Who'll
Stop The Rain" before
sliding beneath deck
a second split by what
the Hell is this. It
matters so little now,
what really happened.
Whipping a Zebco, I
cast to the deep pool,
wheelchair arms held
tight like handlebars.
-- Edward C. Lynskey
|
|
