struggle

Free form poetry.

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Rope

It hangs there, the knot fashioned neatly, calling me

like my mother did when I was out past sunset

running with the fellas…even a few girls.

We played in the street, living free then. But those days are gone.

Forever.

Each shift, negative contact, complaint, or

snide comment from those I serve

draws each loop tighter, choking away what little air that remains.

I cannot be sure anyone would bother to cut me down.

A lone truth that stings.

What is it that brings me back each day?

Much to live for, sure, but for the others, not me.

Is that really true?

Blasts from my past, from lives I watched expire,

swing the rope back and forth, gently at first.

An evil grin

on my weathered face

grows impatient…

hoping the wooden beam

the rope is affixed to

cannot support my weight.

–C.L.Swinney (c) 2017

Joe

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Joe

Blood and other miscreants

struggle to move through capillaries.

A faux-wood kiosk shields

the bevy of people lined up

like candy bars in a vending machine

anxious to be selected.

Lifestyles clustered in a tumbler

seek purpose and motivation to face

the grind stone, rough and unrelenting.

A loud gum-chewer smacks and twirls

surveying tempting pastries.

I grovel with sullied thoughts.

The machine infuriates my needs,

clamors, but not for me.

Finally I reach another like me.

My heart palpitates seeking true weakness.

Caffeine, and whatever I adulterate it with,

is stirred, always clock-wise,

immediately drawing every sense erect.

Cautiously, I cradle the tin cup

up to my lips and tip ever so slightly.

-C.L.Swinney COPYRIGHT 2014 by CLSWINNEY