by Dale Goodson
we don’t
in the bow
drifting through silver slippers
not involved in totals
not in subtotals
our fingertips
busy
leaving trails in the lake
we drum on the sides
with heels and palms
that other sound
that violent pounding
not ours
a duck feather drifts by
like a ticket
we take our seats fore and aft
the sky explodes
some of it theirs
some of it the melting sun
we look at each other
the water smells great
someone could take a big gulp and down we’d go
but
not right now
right now
we kiss each other’s foot
right now
two flies beat it around our heads
hey bombardment
hey wooden boat
we float and swat and sing
who wouldn’t
in the pink rooster tail
of day
Dale Goodson is a writer from Seattle currently living in New York City and working as a homeless outreach worker in Times Square. He recently created his own website.
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