I am not in love
with her
not in love with her
freckles, or her dimpled smile
or her rusty red hair,
her lisp for the gospel or
love for the harmonica.
I am not in love
with her;
I am a stranger passing through.
I am a stranger passing through
various states of emotion
and I've been them all before
I've been them all.
The truck stops are all familiar
and the bathrooms bear my graffiti.
I am buying .60 cent candy from machines
in vending sheds I've been to before.
I've been too optimistic
before, throwing hooks lightly and expecting
fish bites, tugs on the line, bobbers down
under the surface and then up, out,
into my lap! I've expected gold
glistening fish in breathless dawn
and gotten only flies, sunburn, and lazy beer cans all upright.
This time, I bait my line.
No, actually, this time I do not
bait my line. I do not fish. I stand
asking questions with an open hand
feet firmly standing on solid sand,
sinking quickly to knee-deep prayer
and a smile which reassures like summer wind.
Like summer wind, I am driving
home again, open air and open eyes.
dashboard skipped, sowing season
to match her quote, (yeah). I am not
in love with her, but this midnight peace
will suffice for now,
to speed towards...
what?
Moved!
-
My last name isn't Keysor anymore, contrary to this blog's URL. So I've
moved:
www.choosetheodd.blogspot.com
(The title is from the poem, "Under Which Lyr...
12 years ago