But I am a fool.
A jealous man who swings from ropey greed,
back and forth,
the ever-tightening noose,
pulled taut by the eyes that
fall on you.
This is not suicide,
doomed to the caverns of self-pity
that howl and wallow to the stony existence
of nobody in particular
echoing out into the valley,
the valley, where the flush of rain
I can but put my hope in the hands of the wind,
have faith in their power of change
that so many times has swept me wrong.
I’ll take my chances
and pray for hurricane.