a poet of indeterminate age sums up, more or less

well, you fell out of a tree

          (beguiling, bewitching, the tips of the branches

          long fingers gesturing to you, whispering

          listen, kid, i got a secret to tell you.)

and, boom, that was the first time your collarbone got busted up.

maybe later you were just daydreaming, or, more likely,

drunk on some boone’s farm or some girl,

anyway at some point you decided goddamn it,

I’m just not falling anymore,

but there was always some cracked pavement

or some tree root hidden by a patch of grass you missed with the mower,

a million sundry distractions besides, and one day don’t you just know

that you stuck your hand down to catch yourself

          (of course, you knew how damn stupid that was

          the moment you reached earthward,

          but the die already cast and all that nonsense)

and, bam, there’s a wrist, snapped like dry kindling.

well, maybe, if your’re lucky enough

and the right angels are looking out for you,

you live long enough to figure out that you’re gonna fall,

and the trick is to hit and roll on your good shoulder.

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6 thoughts on “a poet of indeterminate age sums up, more or less

  1. boones farm totally made me think of HS…senior year i fell down stairs and caught myself with my hand…torn tendons though they thought it was shattered…you been spying on me? lol

  2. and we never stop falling…stumbling over the roots of life and yep – good if we manage to roll on our good shoulder…i try hard but often enough…ya know…good write w.k.

  3. So good! You know how to spin a tale and then hit us good and proper when we’re down. Yes, indeed, we’ll fall down, and fall again and the injuries just get worse with age.

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