Rust

I'm seven.

My face is plastered to the window
in the back seat of the old Bronco
and I'm watching trees blur past like watercolors.
The chassis rocks from side to side
and I imagine that this is what a boat must feel like.

The water here is too shallow
but the river bank is sandy
and I could almost cast my fishing line across to the other side.
Papaw warned me not to waste a good hook
caught on something under the murky water.

There's a power line in the front yard now
if you ever happen to stop by
and if you look hard enough, you can see
the thin clear cord wound around like a spool of thread.
Rusted hook swings in the wind.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8ygm2g/as_her_love_grows_so_does_his_distance/e2bp95f/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8y3och/only_painters_and_poets_really_see/e29vuj8/