Will o’ the Wistful

When she laughed, he didn’t argue,
just walked
Past the railway trestle, into the swamp
where erotic orchid faces bobbed to the sounds
of pensive crickets, and lonely loons

“Stay on the silver path,” people said
As if granite sparkles made the road safer,
As if you wouldn’t get hit by a truck,
As if your heart wouldn’t break when she turned you down

They paid millions for his prototype;
The glow of yearning souls
made everyone look like the fairest moon,
or the first star at sunset

But it didn’t make her want him.

He left the money at her door,
wealth earned by the grief of a thousand luckless lovers;
Back in the swamp, he dissolved into light,
Replenishing the source
 

Ω

Editor’s Corner

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