You
walk the dog along the pond, talking
to
your finance about the wedding. You say
sleep
eluded your last night because of worry.
Worry,
like you do sometimes, fretting over
your
job, you say. All the weight of everything
pressing
down on you until you’re shaking
your
head side to side, saying no, no, no
as
if
a dream pirate has you tied to the mast
in
a rainpour. Weirdly, by morning you’re
okay,
realizing an action to take. Find a place
to
marry with tables and chairs and a roof above,
in
case of rainpour. It’s simple, yes,
giving
up
the worry so sleep will wash you down
river,
floating on a large inner tube, the day
glorious
with sun and spring flowers.
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