Frail Canoe

By Wil C. Fry, Oct. 23, 1999 (Saturday)

Copyright © 1999 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.

Your own worst nightmare you may be
To me, you’re something scarier: Strike Three.
Some say I have bad judgment, and others say I’m naïve
Others tell me that now I should feel relieved
“Thank God it’s over now”
“Unwrinkle your brow”
“There’s no reason in the world to grieve”
They are not the ones who know the depths of my inner being
They are strangers there, and will not be seeing
What you have seen
    in me, and felt
Nor were they the ones who caused my heart to melt
There upon a summer’s eve when the gentle waters lapped against the stone
On which we sat and dreamed
With stars our guide
Was I the only one outside? Do you think I lied?
And now, I have proven my pessimism true to be:
Those who know me cannot love me
My secret, shared, brought all to naught
And the blood splattering on my face still wakes me up at night
As I shiver and think what that boy could be now
And now you are the only one who knows
Why I could not join myself to the godly woman
You did not or will not suck the life from me, Bug,
Because the windows of my spirit have
Been darkened for some time now
If you brought light to those shutters, and then let the glow die,
Is it really my loss?
Nay, I say it was a gain that the light appeared at all
Oh yes, I know, Proverbs says
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick”
But sick I already was
And now, leave me to float on the dreamy river which is Styx,
The river that leads to my True Home
The one beyond these walls of mortality
If you will, push my frail canoe along
For the current has slowed of late
And remove your naked body from my dreams

For K.L.M., in response to her originally untitled poem I am the bug, written the day before.

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