The Lost Line

There's something about the rhythm of walking ... especially alone, nobody to talk to ... which can set a phrase to coursing repeatedly through your brain. Perhaps it's something you recall from a conversation, or it may simply pop out of the blue.

The more you think about it, the more entrenched it becomes. Then you start hoping it will stay in place until you get back home, or find a curbside bench where you can sit, then commit that persistent phrase to paper.

Sometimes it's a series of phrases, thoughts that are beginning to shape themselves into a poem.

It was at this point in one of my walks, when I found myself in mid-street ... but let's let the poem tell the story. "The Lost Line" was originally published in ByLine.

The Lost Line

Walking, engrossed

in the troubling

task of untangling

a difficult line,

I looked up

at mid-street

into the whites

of the eyes of a car.

The startled driver

swerved and went on,

as did I, trembling

at the thought

of being cut down,

end-stopped,

in such a way.

I left the line

lying there where

I had dropped it,

a broken lanyard,

the possibility

of starting

something big

scared out of it.

I doubt that I

can ever reclaim it,

poor frayed thing,

abandoned, lost,

turned to a frazzle

by tires that sing

without ceasing

on Wayne Avenue.

© 1996

***

Today's word: lanyard

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thanks, Helen ... rest assured, I'm most unlikely to come up with the missing words/line at this stage. I've had lesser distractions steal some thought that appeared to be headed in the direction of a poem ... maybe ... but only that once did it happen because a vehicle was staring me down in the middle of the street. What a surprise that was! Still, I managed to get something out of the incident. I agree about the word, too ... there's just something about all the images ... memories, I suppose ... it carries with it.