PART OF THE COURSE

I guess he was

just no good at it:

stood on every board

that creaked,

banged his knee

on the coffee table,

collided with silver;

he might as well have

worn a striped T-shirt

and carried a sack

marked swag.

So when they caught

him, sprawled

in the rose bush

and led him away

he still hung on

to his dream

and vowed to try

and try again.

The time he'd spend

in silent analysis

would be just

part of the course.

 

Published in The Waterhouse Review 2012