Swooning with Sinatra,
he drives into the sea with windows down and decides
nothing would be finer than to let the car flood.
Done with staring at a square, a seventeen-inch
black and white, powered off,
finished with filing,
wishing all the while he could
fall off the tree like a turned leaf, he sits,
seat-belted; he watches brine cascade
over the door, sees liquid slip between door and
frame, and thinks that anything could be
better than newsmen prying -
even as his hands pry at the doorhandle,
knowing what neck-high water really means.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment