Morning Rush
Clouds in the sky, tugging,
leaping into the dawn
like birds gone fey, gone,
laughing and diving into the
sun.
Traffic in waves, surging,
collapsing, is this what we
meant,
crossing the bridge alive with intent,
racing, the race nearly done.
The unsettled souls flinging,
flailing across the serene
stone of this bridge, did we really
mean
down the long highway alone?
Plastic Bag Stuck in a Tree
It begs for interpretation,
definition:
is it a brown flag, lashing back and
forth,
calling for a lost country,
a lung wheezing in and out,
or a captive bird, wings
taped,
crying for help?
It is all of these things,
and none of them.
Detritus from a warming world,
and another warning, unheeded.
Lives of Former Athletes
The bright morning is over, the team
is gone,
the solo afternoon is here.
Decades of dyed hair and budgets lie
ahead,
early marriage, bad marriage,
neglected children,
feeling betrayed as their bodies
thicken
and decay from within, how did this
happen,
they can only wonder, the heavy
breathing
after a single flight of stairs.
They labor through the ordinary
days,
slow and sad, at the mercy of time,
as
they dream of dolphins leaping over water.
Joan E.
Cashin writes from the Midwest, and she has published in many journals, such as
RIGGWELTER, ARIEL CHART, AMETHYST REVIEW, POETRY MONTHLY, and WRITING IN A
WOMAN'S VOICE.
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