i got strung along
my line flew out over the water
in a perfect straight flail
the thin monofilament laying gracefully
on the tension of the water
the baited hook sinking enticingly

but i still got strung along

washed across the bricks like some
poor-man's paint
plucked and pinched without excuse

an almost habitual silence ensues between us
and when i feel the tug,
it's never a good time

never in stride, it just slaps me
leaves me throbbing

division of labor between my heart and head
carrying sleeping wishes
wishes in technicolor, beautiful and
strong in their reasoning

hateful to the truth

laden with boughs of reckoning
(and you never hear these regrets
never anymore)

02/25/2007

Posted on 02/25/2007
Copyright © 2024 Corey Lockaby