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Saturday, June 22, 2013

When does the drought end?

I never saw the islands here
Hidden from me in the mists
Though I have wandered here often
Seeking solice at the river side
I can find no where else
I always the roots
Buried deep into the banks
Like desperate fingers clinging
To the last of soil
Before fate or some other force
Swept them away
My own fingers aching
With a similar attempt
At clinging to a life
That has buried me as deep.
It is the drought
That dredges up the hidden things,
Shows the detritus deep water
My mind full of broken bottles
And rusted tin cans
And a small trickle of hope
Between them
I hear the squawk of ducks and geese
As if inside my head
Landlord and debt collectors
Pecking at me
For what I cannot give,
I feel as crowded
As the striped bass
Caught in the shrinking pools
Easy pickings to the perpetual
Pecks of savage beaks,
Me and they
If and when
The drought
Might end.

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