The Netting

I thought this was how a man finds peace,

suspended in mesh between two trees.

But the ropes just tighten with every crease

until I’m pinned by the afternoon breeze.

The S-hook groans a rusted, rhythmic note

against the maple’s rough and peeling bark.

I feel the sway in the back of my throat,

a heavy swinging toward the coming dark.

A mosquito finds the skin of my hand,

landing right where the rope has bit.

I’m caught in a trap I carefully planned,

watching the sky and making the most of it.

It’s a strange kind of rest, being bound

by the strings of a chair you bought on sale.

I’m only two feet off the cooling ground

but the height makes me feel small and frail.