That rebound sound and you know that we fear it,
the slingshot ricochet that moves me closer and you further away.
When the glue cracks and the sides come apart and the seamstress is on vacation
who will fix this broken heart?
I travel vacantly
unaware where I’m going or what I have seen.
It seems that the consciousness stream has been dammed as if this was planned in my own private foxhole because I know that it’s war, she knows it and knew long before me,
knew of the towers that would fall in my wake, knew I’d be awake
sensing each sunrise, waiting for her to open those blue eyes and explode.
Every root I expose and each shoot left to bloom leaves me less room to decant my ancestry,
is it me
am I feeble?
She scribbled my name on the tips of her fingers,
I quibbled about the time that it took and this is the reason I’m reading at bedtime
a book on my own.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.