Fate
by Bill Yarrow
comes as a handshake, a pat
on the back, fingers through
your hair, a nibble at your neck,
a kiss on the lips, a tongue
down your throat, a hand
in your pants. In other words,
an offer you choose not to refuse.
Well… decline the proffered hand,
turn from the puckered kiss,
refuse the fondle. It's a noir life?
That's what you've been taught?
Doesn't have to be. Listen: you
don't need to return every single
serve that comes across your net.
|
8
favs |
978 views
9 comments |
90 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
A version of this poem appeared in BLIP.
Thank you, Gary Percesepe and Meg Pokrass.
This poem appears in Incompetent Translations and Inept Haiku (Cervena Barva Press 2013).
Other stories by Bill Yarrow
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
"Listen: you
don't need to return every single
serve that comes across your net."
A poem titled Fate ends with a simple but powerful statement about choice. Love that. *
Nice poetic symmetry. Fate happens. We decide, potentially. I especially like this: 'It's a noir life? / That's what you've been taught? / Doesn't have to be.'
Another home run from Bill Yarrow. Yadayadayada ... ya.
Just joshing. Fave
Amen. Never did like tennis. Had a lot of trouble returning serves. *
Nice work, Bill. Enjoyed.
Honest. And great too :)
Enjoyed this immensely.
That last line is awesome.
Well said, Bill. Love this!
An excellent think piece, Bill. Enjoyed. *