The Little Marsh King
I sit in my car on an old bridge painted white.
the stream passes under as I wait for the light
an old turtle suns itself on a rock near the bank
this turtle is my touchstone if I may be so frank
when ever I cross this bridge he is always there
looking stoic unencumbered and without a care
as ducks circle the thrown of this little marsh king
the stream flows the day wanes he wants not a thing
he hardly moves at all with his nose high in the air
there’s a smile on that face with the know it all stare
on occasion as I happen to be waiting for the light
I turn to find him looking right at me what a sight
what a strange feeling it’s like he’s in my head
telling me to take care ease up or I’ll drop dead
I realize that life has a rhythm but we set the pace
life is for living and it doesn’t have to be a race
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