It always ends
like a Robert Frost poem
he speaks
in a language she does not understand
she tries,
but he is wizened, suspicious
innocence has no place on a tired vine
bird shit scattered over the fields
wash your produce, she says
and he takes it all wrong
“What’s she on about now
I’m tired of it”
he’s cracking, she’s cracked
yes, when we resign our wills
to others,
when we bend
we believe we will not break
until the ripping point is reached
will another aimless traveler
risk his life to rescue me
or shall I unravel the web
I’m caught in
and escape myself
after all,
there is no independent existence
The Halfwit Writer 