thirteen is just luck
seventeen was a coming of age
almost twenty four she said
and this caused a remote
response

back to a day when
vocation stood second
arbitrary and coarse
I held your hips to my face
felt your weight fall
and fall

I was always there to fall on
fall back on
I was some thing
not some one
but I melted on these
snowcaps like ice
in a double

incongruous and
incoherent with a
stupid grin…
Like art and victory
her arm was miles long
as was this fucking road

and not a sign in sight
and not a rulebook
and no morals
and no story line
and no cliffs
and not a word said

only the goosebumps
on the back of my fingers
leave no prints
no lineage
sorry baby
I have no soul
or purpose
or real pulse after all.

© Tom Watters  5/25/07