7pm, Late Fall. Its dark and loud and cold.
The Minister of Courage stands at the bridge,
still casting a line for his dinner.
He considers a girl in his ministry
who persists daily creating situations
she has no art or skill for dealing with.
They overwhelm her, she comes in for help.
Her life is constant battle to sustain
a positive mental reservoir.
He asks the fish if her acts are courage
or mire of a foolish mind on itself.
They do not answer. His hands turn to stone.
His jacket drapes along the railing,
His sleeves rolled, his shirt untucked.
Cacophonies now Doppler from a passing
10-ton truck. If he could give her answer,
she would return and feed and clothe him.
His stone hands murder the fishing pole.
He leaps over the rail and joins the stream.
Like the girl, he has immersed himself
in a murky world, violent and thoughtless.
Here is the food and clarity he needs.
Yes, forced nearness to one's desire requires
a courage that shares brain space with lunacy.