Godlike

It's evening on the Yellowstone, a little south of Billings.
There's a man who's hip-deep in the river, whipping
Lengths of fishing line. Its esses catch the fading sun.
They flash and then they fall onto the rippled surface of
The river, feathered fly and hook attached, and meant to
Coax a trout to bite. Though none has yet, the man is
Pleased, in the river, in the world, by himself, away from
Air-conditioned death, fluorescent lights, the tiny lot
And little fences, life increased and shrunk at once.
The money's come. It got him here. The closets
Of his home contain the treasures of a potentate,
The wife and kids live very well, but, when he lays
Awake at night and wonders why he isn't happy,
This is where he dreams of being. This is where
Where we'll leave him, fixed, the power of us writers
Being that we choose the limits of what readers
Get to view.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 35 times
Written on 2014-07-24 at 01:06

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text