The Sinking
Stretching out
On a sun-warmed deck chair
With my overpriced
Dark roast coffee,
I attempt to jigger free
From my thoughts
The impending discomforts
Of home.
The marsh looms
In front of me
Like a stale painting
In a dank hotel room,
With only a rickety wooden guardrail
To hold me back
From the sickly yellows and browns
That pull me forward.
I should fling myself
Like that heron
Off the balcony
Down,
Down,
Into the swamp,
Splaying my sun-starved limbs
To catch the warm, enticing wind
As I fall
Face first—
SPLAT!—
Into the cool mud
That sucks,
Sucks,
My limp body
Down,
Down,
The reeds bending over
To examine their latest acquisition,
The tiny crabs dancing
On my bare back
With tittering glee.
And there I would lie,
Until Mother Nature took notice
Of my entry
And quickly got to work
Molding and shaping me
To her twisted liking.
A fitting end.
But, alas,
My coffee needs reheating.
So my glorious demise
Must wait.
