8 May 2016
The drizzle felt like felt.
It furred his body,
from his blond hair
to his sneakered feet.
It furred his scull,
his oars. It made slippery
his grip on them,
which caused him hesitate
to think of rowing.
Ultimately, the felt of drizzle
furred his desire, dampening it,
deciding him. He would check
the weather forecast. At that moment,
|he envied the waterfowl,
a feeling he found himself|
laughing over. Yet were he
a swan he need not concern
himself with the felt of drizzle.
Back indoors, he checked his iPhone
for the latest weather. Showers.
He towelled dry, grabbed a bottle
of water from the fridge,
eased back on the sofa,
took a swig of water.
Ahh! He would chill for a mo.
His eyes began to close.
He slept.
He dreamed.
He dreamed he morphed into a swan.
What was it?
Two days later?
Three?
Friends had stopped by.
They were up for rowing.
Into his flat they laughed,
chatting, calling,
‘Yo, Buzz!’,
and found, to their puzzlement,
what appeared to be
swan feathers on the sofa.
Philip Kuepper
(7 April 2016)
Hear The Boat Sing 