he was done. pretty much fed up.
this daily trick, this ruse. this foil.

his ears rung of a kid's cargo,
Persian rugs, Sheiks flying
between them, filling his cranium.

but that was the youth of dreams,
gone like that last breath of mint;
a potato's eye blighted by Ireland.

off the first step
his ankle sliced the tepid june water
pulling the weight in behind him,
[he reminded himself]no splash!
watch it, carrreefullll.

roll it toward the deep end,
gravity will take hold, pull.

wait!

say that last prayer[include people you hate]
admit that you hated.

06/24/2008

Posted on 06/25/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan