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Anchors Away

Crossing the street, a street
so wide and tumultuous I thought
maybe I was walking on water, I,
with mutes shoved inside my sneakers
(some have got ears like you couldn’t imagine!),
came across a newborn
still covered in his red veil, still plugged in.
“Baby!” I cried. “Where is your mother?”
He rolled over then, pulled tight
on that wire protruding from his belly
and gave it a firm pluck.
A note rang out, the top E from an acoustic guitar,
the kind that resonates in the skull
long after it’s finished resonating in the air,
and he said,
“I tossed her in the dumpster behind that building.”
He jerks his head in the direction of
which he is speaking. I hear a wail?
A whale? Stranded on a hard, blue, metallic beach?
“I’ve got too much living to get done,” he says,
wrenching the old life-line
from his stomach, casting it aside to dry and
harden just as he will, like autumn leaves.
“Anchors away!”

5 Feb 07

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Wow.  Protest, or merely observation, it's powerfully done.  Fine writing, I think.
 — CervusWright

A conversation with the other side.

I like it.
 — unknown

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