On the Line

I am not immune

to a little magical thinking

but I no longer see

myself playing the hero

of my life’s story,

more an accidental protagonist

hanging laundry

on a perfect September Saturday.

This is what I see from above:

his thinning hair,

how he bends toward the basket,

the clothes flapping in the wind,

fabricky facsimiles of headless torsos,

of pairs of empty legs and buttocks,

hollow feet and ankles mismatched.

No longer the wind

or even golden pollen borne on it,

I am these various wind-snapped clothes

pinned to the line, hung out to dry.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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