Creek Twig

Sometimes I feel like a twig raced down the creek.

The kind ya throw in as a boy with the other kids,

and run behind ‘til it gets stuck on a rock or a branch.

Maybe I have little limb stickin’ up like a mast,

and one curvy white oak leaf as a sail,

and an acorn or two—provisions.

Maybe I was a part of a bigger boat once,

a raft even,

‘fore I broke off and went wayward.

Maybe I made it through the big metal pipe, as tall as a man,

that fed the creek from one side over to the Crow’s yard.

I was too afraid to go into that pipe with the other boys—

that looked like a place for spiders.

Big ones.

I wonder if I felt a part of the big boat—‘fore it capsized.

Before I started this next leg.

I can’t remember the other side of the pipe—

I can’t remember what was beyond the dark under the road.

Now it’s just one set of green eyes starin’ back into that pipe.

There’s always two pairs in love songs though.

The pair that’s singing, lookin’ into the green eyes—

and the green eyes.

These green eyes move through the grocery store with a full basket.

Luggin’ paper towels and toilet paper too.

Thank God, those are in plastic wrap.

You can just dig your finders in and make your own tote loops.

When I’m cartin’ all that heavy stuff—

creamer, laundry detergent, coffee, that one’s not heavy but cumbersome—

it makes me wonder how moms do it.

Though I expect they do it like I do,

makin’ tote loops where there’s not any.

They only have one pair of eyes too.

But theirs are singin’ and totin’.

I just have me,

and these green eyes,

and a one leaf twig afloat down the creek.