Where the Woods Open
There's a path I always take
down to the river where the woods
are dressed down open
The light of the sky
doesn't shine in your eyes
but leads the way to redemption
I like to stand there for a moment
on the shortcut created by troubled feet
woven with wilderness bliss
and cigarettes butts
It's a path that never sleeps
I see the same semi-blind vision
of the river every time
I hear baby boat horns blaring in the distance
and floating out of view
I walk to the rhythm of the trees
the faint sound of Wild Thing
playing in the car
I carry a bent black rod
with a tangled neon line
and a mud-covered box of rusty hooks
and flaming red bobbers
I wear my T-Shirt that says Iron City Beer
that's cut off at the belly
or sometimes my other one
that says Just Do It
with shredded denim shorts
that ride my buttocks
After a few seconds of inhaling
and exhaling an indecision
I do what most fishermen do
with only my thoughts to keep me company
I find a clean rock
and cast with desperation
The woods close
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