The Plan
       

The prudent carry an extra oarlock and make a will
Decades before its scheduled due date.
Never such people, and not such a day,
We fell onto a leather and wood sofa, the size of our old boat,
And began to laugh. This led to a game
Bound by two rules—no illness and no explosions—
But dire circumstances yes—and for protection let's think of some
That as a package could fuck us good.
For that we'd need paper and pen, like poets after the truth.
You were the writer, I was the poet.
You were the leader and got the paper.
I wanted to remember first, about the boat and the oar,
Then write. You remembered the oarlock sinking in the water
And the boat's stutter and glide toward the ocean.
I stood and paddled three strokes decades ago
(It was like trying to move a floating wooden sofa with a shovel)
Then the heavy, wobbling current stopped for five seconds
—No one can say why—
And we lurched into still water.
You do not today on the sofa know the current stopped.
But probably I have to tell you, or maybe not.

Tweet
Copyright © 2011 Arthur Vogelsang All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission