Planet of Weeds
by Dale Cottingham

I’ve been mortal but free.
In one part I drove a hundred miles
for a second date. Mid-October,
moonless dark, flatland town.
Dinner on the piazza, small talk, wine.
I hoped we’d go back to her place.
And Bingo! Within an hour we were on her couch,
then on her bed, kissing, hands roving,
our imaginations sprawling at their whim,
her saying That’s exactly what I want,
no one to tell us to stop.
Later, we talked on the cell, traded texts.
I never saw her after.

This is only a branch of my story
that I want you to read
you are already reading

the story lifts into air
it is no longer in reach

it is gone.

When I look back
I wonder what happened.

But the main stem of my story, the one
that fills my mind, keeps
growing amour propre like a weed,
deepening roots, extending leaves
to take in moisture, sun, from the firmament,
furthering my plan to survive through all manner of conditions
even if things happen by chance,
doesn’t everything happen by chance.

I see that others feel this too,
the way they purse their lips,
pursue lust, greed, going from place to place,
swallowing what seems good at the time, leaving
wet spots on rumpled sheets,
proliferating across the wide range.
It’s called living.
I wonder if that’s so.

I think about what she’s doing now, this
very moment before the sun rises, maybe
sleeping with another, maybe awake
listening to traffic stirring in the small town,
as I sit with journal open
facing my quibbles and sometimes hopes.

These are only moments
under a silent sun.
In these poorer lands
we’ve learned no one gets what they want,
and only partly what they need,
while everyone spreads themselves so far
without shaman or guide,
so far alone, unasked.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 4.

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