Too Flimsy A Fling A Swing

too flimsy, her flings, she swings
to air and back to his arms, like a pendulum
less the house of a grandfather's drum,
good girl, good dog, good days of god,
log in, and click to an icon of images
emails malling on the screen of screeches,
scream, did you hear the scream of those
blogs? I am writing them. Lots of poems,
blogged logged and then
left for those cleft-lifts, once in a while
a smile flashes, and then a reminder: where are you?
i am here, he says. It is dark. No, come here, there is a ray of light,
This is the tunnel. There is an end somewhere and see the sun
I am here. Come back to me. She listens.
too flimsy, this fling. She wings back to him, on a dirty swing.
They meet and mate and then trying to figure out

What is the meaning of regret? Why did Johnny come so late?
He is coming. She is coming.

This is not the Library. But there is so much silence.
Only a little after.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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