Leftovers
And another day
has flopped down in front of you,
resting after last night's stormy
lovemaking between earth and sky -
you take your seat near where the river
whispers its secrets as it does
every morning. It shows you
its hoard of driftwood and plastic
bottles. To it, all is prized, all given
a home.
Habit has you pushing thought boats
out into the channel hoping they'll
be carried into the bay then out
to open sea, finally washing up
on the shores of someone else’s mind,
or sink mid ocean to become part
of something bigger although
you can never figure out what that is.
People pass with faces carrying
an invitation and a need to talk.
Your eyes are elsewhere, staring
through and beyond them
as if they were glass, out pass
landscapes, air, everything - to a place
that is no place, just nothingness.
Sometimes you feel as if
you are about to dissolve, not knowing
into what. The river, you're sure,
would prize the leftovers.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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