poetry by j matthew waters

late Sunday morning

what can I take from him
in his waning years
that I’ve yet to discover

he asked me
is there anything that I have here
that you want
anything whatsoever

of course I realized
he was speaking of material things
having consistently kept his own philosophies
close to the vest

in hindsight there were probably
a thing or two or three—

could it have been
he was opening a door
trying to bait me like the fisherman
that he is
tempting me with a tidbit or two
only to yank it away

I nodded sideways
uninterested in the material world
incapable of matching his own imagination

august two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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