William Hathaway, Poet
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So Say All of Us


On my last day a man meant to be me
sat in a boat fishing into blue frosting
on which a red scripted message said
Be Afraid, Fish! Fish, Be Very Afraid!
When a truck tire skids a spray of gravel
into a pothole puddle, a briefest frenzy
of small crowns dance up. The world
then returns to a silent gray glimmer
upon the pool’s murky skin. Thus it is.
A black belt studded with chrome spikes
such as goth hooligans with savage hair
that loiter about the park oten wear
was presented to me to hoist aloft
my forever drooping slacks, so the jest
went. I grinned until my face hurt,
but I did not loop it on. Nor did I pocket
the pocket protector meant to mock
in fun my punctilious cast of mind.
Then the song always sung got sung.
A fly rod left forever after in the tire well
must’ve cost two hundred bucks. Finally alone
in the lot hefting my box of odds and ends
only a plastic soda cup trundled by,
ticking like a prayer wheel. Om-something.
Hum, enlightenment eternally quiet
as flowing clouds. For then on, as long as
for then on lasted, signs I drove past said
Everyone Approved. Whenever I left,
someone always said “Have a nice day.”


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