We Fish
The road is dusty
but not the air.
It is thick with fragrance.
The rocks are hot and flat.
The sun? Furious and friendly.
Fence rows rise above.
On either side, tall, strong
green corn peeks over their tops.
The fences stretch up and away
over the hill ahead
under the welcoming arms of oaks.
They edge the road way back
down the hill;
down from where we came.
Up the next. Over the horizon.
Cerulean blue the sky.
Overhead the leaves
busily rustle the breeze's secret
held in their highest reaches.
Here we step, cane poles in hand,
can of worms fresh dug,
old, rusty hooks, newfound.
The dew lifts.
Her cheeks flush with morning
warming to the sun.
Water's laughter discloses
the cool glade
under golden shade
where we sit on the bank
feet dangling.
Current washing off the dust.
Washing off the hot road,
and the weight of the world.
We cast. Bobbers joyfully bob;
dutiful sentinels for the distracted.
The air freshens.
Our eyes meet.
We laugh.
We kiss.
We fish.
Shadow Man
In your filthy street
splashed with black ooze
his eyes reflect
the darkness of your souls.
As you drive by chatting
Distractedly, fiddling with the knobs,
he waits outside. He can't come in.
Excluded to make the exclusive,
the truth in the lie,
receiving your offer
of kindness and neglect,
detecting you, inspecting you
for a greater mind cast on the outside.
Your convenient despairs
your momentary causes,
pause as you check your hair,
he's standing there
eyes full of the inner light.
You don't look past his shoes.
No denouement, no resolution,
just the clock, bastard child of the church
forging your collar with each tick.
Spading your hole with each tock.
With dry, dangling tongues,
loping after the cars before you,
keeping in front of those behind
he's there as you realize.
He's there as it dawns
too late for the light
to reflect anything of note.
He turns his collar to the cold
and walks into the shadows
as you run into your graves.