Lonely

 

 

This is a proposition about life, mirror in hand, part of the tree behind you.

Mirror in hand, part of a tree, the top? Surely it’s not the roots, 

Just the middling trunk, a sad and slow becoming.

I wanted drama as a boy, climbed the oak, cried out 

that I was king–don’t know if kids climb 

oaks these days–suspect it isn’t so; 

suspect many things, mirror in hand,

highlighting rooves, the haycocks, stoic fences,

parts of things in the glass, 

the rest all up to luck.