the poetry of Charles Fry

27 July 2009

Trudging down the street.
The ransom in my pocket.
My mind wanders again.
Loses track of what I should be thinking.
So long.
This day.
The asphalt before me.
Her hair.
I should have known better.

A quick glance over my shoulder.
Should I double back?
No, that's what they expect.
I pull up my collar and continue.
Straight.
Trying to look determined.
Another gait.
A show of confidence.

I pause before turning the corner.
Straighten my jacket.
Riffle my hair.
This has already unfolded
so many times in my mind.
But never quite like this.
Without the air of destiny.
The ethereal beating of my heart.
Calm composure.
Sublime resignation.

Copyright © 2009 Charles Fry