The River

The current carries me, but I

am the river. I course. I

gurgle. I choke. I’m muddy.

To get to the river, there’s

mud – muddy banks.

Sometimes deep. Sometimes

frozen. Sometimes steamy.

But nevertheless, there’s

always mud. He braved the

mud in his Blundstones.

Rugged shoes caught my eye.

He told me he bought them at

Neiman’s. Lickable, like a

vanilla ice cream cone, yet

durable. That was number

one. Number two: his hair.

Corkscrews, auburn. Tight.

Like hand grenade deltoids.

A hand could twirl its digits

around and take a good grip.

Number three: the Karmann

Ghia. Colored like cinnamon

toast. With butter. I’d never

rode an open top. Ride on the

wave of whatever-wind-no-

thoughts. So, I was romanced

by boots, curls, and a ride.

Small things to trade for a

life, but at the time they’d

seemed potent. Years later he

put three fingers up the river.

I felt the cold of his wedding

ring, the relationship

became… precarious. People

can be subtracted by simple

mathematical swiftness.

And so I was and on I flow.

The current will always carry

me because I am the river.

I am the river.

I am the river.

What are you looking for?