A Poem by William G. Davies, Jr.

A Gush

A cigarette butt is lifted and somersaulted over the shoulder of the road in the wake of a speeding car, then another.

The butt as though a baton is handed over to a bridge where centrifugal forces are greatly diminished.
There, in warm grit against a sunny abutment the relay has seemingly ended until a fisherman peering over the side of the rail,
stubs the grit and butt into a drainage pipe and it, ahead of contrails of dust falls into the green water like the Gemini capsule.
The fisherman playfully spits after it but misses. Water spiders skitter about its sinking as if marking the spot until the fantail
of a catfish loosens the surface and all is sucked into the murk.

William G. Davies, Jr. has been happily married for 38 years and lives in a valley of birdsong and wildflowers. He has published in Jellyfish Whispers, The Cortland Review, The Wilderness House Review, The Blue Lyra Review and others. He eats PBJ sandwiches everyday for lunch!