Sinking

Photo by Joe Stephenson

         The river feels wide;

         Mississippi-wide.

  

      I cannot see the bottom,

      but I know it must

      also be deep.

   As I sit on its bank, I see

   a ship coming downstream.

   Something's wrong.

   The ship is listing.

If I knew the distinction

between starboard and port,

I could tell you

which way it was leaning.

   Whichever way it is,

   it must not be port

   because this vessel isn't going

   to make it to shore.

      There is one person

      visible on deck.

      I strain my eyes

      to identify him.

      It is me.

         Have you ever

         watched yourself sink?

      Helpless, or so it seems,

      the journey you always thought

      you were on is ending,

      not as the brochure described it,

      in some glorious destination,

      but at the bottom of the river

      in the middle of nowhere.

   He -- that is, me --

   is standing there,

   holding firmly to the rail,

   defying gravity as the water level

   rises and consumes him --

   that is, me --

   at a surreal angle.

At first, I panic, knowing full well

that I'm drowning.

Then I realize that the ship

is not my life.

   It's just my dream;

   the plan that's danced

   on and off the stage of my heart

   for the last 28 years.

      Have you ever noticed

      how the word "just"

      often feels like

      a slap in the face?

         A while back, someone told me

         I could breathe underwater.

         I tried not to laugh, because

         I thought she meant it.

         Now, I'm hoping she was serious;

         praying she isn't delusional.

      I look down at my

      on-the-river-bank self.

      My clothes are soaking wet;

      muddy, too.

      Apparently, I can breathe

      underwater. I am.

   I'm going to sit here

   and let the wind dry me.

   I hear another ship

   rounding the bend.

Where do you think

this one's going?

© 2015 Todd Jenkins