A riverbed

I go on, you see,

pretending to enjoy

all that makes me a

man, when I don’t enjoy

it at all, for nothing

remains but that I can.


The meaning dried up

like a riverbed long ago

and I play with a trickle

because I can, or maybe it

reminds me of the flood

that used to come in times

when the rain came strong.


Such is life, they say, and I

have no caution to throw

to the wind, just the urge to

be authentic and not pretend,

to be resigned in the knowledge

that what was full will not come again.