By Jan Wiezorek
Oh, I’ve spent ten minutes
today doing what I enjoy,
watching the creek run,
its rocks below colors
of beer and branches.
Under the footbridge
in the sand a silky dime,
paying me for the visit,
though I can’t reach you,
never could. I carry
accountability, making
every word count. Like
Mother saying, “I only
have a little more time
with him” that cold
morning. That’s what I
think seeing it shine
in waters washing it,
keeping it stuck in sand,
and then letting it go.
—
Jan Wiezorek writes from Buchanan, Michigan. His chapbooks, Prayer’s Prairie (Michigan Writers Cooperative Press) and Forests of Woundedness (Seven Kitchens Press), are forthcoming. Wiezorek’s work has appeared in The London Magazine, The Westchester Review, Backchannels Journal, and elsewhere. Visit janwiezorek.substack.com.