It was not my eye patch that defined me as a pirate back
then, but the peg leg I hobbled on when my thoughts dwelled too much on her,
that urgency popping up as her photos did on my cell phone, hinting of buried
treasure I might have had to did deep to get out, with no map and not letter X
to tell me where do dig.
I’m still a pirate all these years later, eye patch stashed
in a junk drawer, needing both eyes wide open as to now trip myself or accidentally
find myself walking the plank, my gaze focused on some distant destination I
can no longer get back to, my ship having already sailed, so that the island I
ach to land on, is more distant than ever, fading into the mists of time until
I can just make out the outline of what I once thought of as possible.
No comments:
Post a Comment