He is night swimming in the dock’s waters
The moonlit water laps at him like a cat at her milk
Beneath him are televisions, fast cars, bags of money,
Women, sodden bibles & job applications and of course, fish.
It is difficult for him to write or even think
When he is doing all he can to stay afloat
And those things beneath want him down there
So very badly and they jostle and cajole and try to
Identify with his situation. He could stay down there
He could simply stop and spend his allotted time with these things
But something inside keeps him going, it is easier in the day.
A boat goes by him, filled with toothy crescents and laughter
And music that vibrates the water’s cloak covering him
He thinks he sees in the moon’s glare, a famous painter
Yes, and a renowned sculpturess kissing and he looks away
Something is in his eye, maybe a splash or it has started raining
So he stops treading water and lets the hands of the black reeds
Take him down and down and deeper. Till there is no moon,
But rest at the bottom of the dock’s soft bed.
Time is no longer of concequence.
