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Chris Swinney Poem
The Rope Becomes Tighter
It hangs there, knot fashioned neatly,
calling me like my mother did
when I was out past sunset
running with the fellas, no girls.
We played in the street, living free.
I’m not so free, or alive.
Each shift, negative contact, complaint, or
comment draws it tighter, choking away
what minimal air remains. I cannot
be sure anyone would bother to
cut me down, that alone stings.
Much to live for, sure, but
for the others, not for me.
I watch it sway, back and
forth and giggle because the beam
it rests on is very weak.
Copyright © Chris Swinney | Year Posted 2015
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