when nothing seems to stick
tossed into the air
it suddenly vanished
like a flying saucer
you yell “pull”
and watch the next one sail
your hands at your side
you have no pistol to draw
no scope on a rifle to peer through
there is nothing to pick up
nothing to hold on to
inconstant thoughts dart
and ricochet and deceive
while old ideas tug and
momentarily tarry before
disappearing again
you yell “pull” even louder
and there it goes
your last concrete object
heading toward the lone tree
lime-shaped and standing in the
glass-littered field
its kelly green leaves
covering every single branch
collectively heaving in relief
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
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