Paul, who skips stones across the water,
wonders who loves him.
He knows it is a common ailment
and Indian Pale Ales only treat the symptoms.
He watches the sparrows flock
and feels the green flicker of jealousy cross his eyes.
Paul peels the label off his water bottle.
His fingers plow furrows in his hair.
He looks up at the sky unsure if it is his.
He fingers an Indian head penny he keeps for luck in his pocket.
Luck always has strings attached.
He feels he is a placeholder, like the ‘c’ in luck.
Paul knows he’ll be fed-up with this feeling tomorrow
and will bicycle on country roads all day long.
The sparrows tell him over and over and over,
You need not wait until tomorrow.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney