I stand at the end of the pier
The old Rolling Stones song
Stuck in my head
Snatched from tuning the radio
Passed nostalgic stations
I can no longer stand
My mother’s madness
Clinging to me
Like the shroud of Turin
A death mask overlaying
Even the most peaceful scenes
This deep river full of silence
Even as the helicopters buzz
And the ferries churn up
Dark water into a mean white broth
Slippery fish slithering out
Between a fishman’s fingers
Hard to catch, even with both hands
A struggle of not gripping too tight
Or holding on tight enough
Hooks always out of the question
Full of agony even when you need
To toss the fish back
And standing here
Searching the surface
For what was lost
Fishermen seeking things
No longer possible
Hoping for a glimpse
Of silver in the churn of ferries
Knowing how completely
The old song was wrong.
Time isn’t.
No comments:
Post a Comment