You could drown
You could drown. You could tumble
into lukewarm, greasy water,
and hit your head on a frying pan
and drown. Or keep slipping over
when you try to stand up
and back climb out. Or scrabble
madly, like a spider in the bathtub
when the family is away –
no flies for you to nibble.
No moths for your flames.
You’d tread water for a little while
but sooner than you think
you’d cramp. You’d wonder
why you bothered, why the struggle,
give up, give in, let go, just
drift away, let the dishcloth
wave goodbye, goodbye, goodbye …
Do you hear me? You could drown.
Struth. Another very much first-draft post. Argh.
Never mind, that’s the whole point of doing this – not getting hung up on the results, and just trusting the process to produce something interesting somewhere along the way. And if I get three good poems from this month, I’ll be way ahead.
A Dark Feathered Art 