I heard your shout of, “Sink or float?”
You tossed me in, in my old, worn coat.
Copper coins pulled me under the waves.
Silencing the pounding tom-tom raves.
There is no me in the float.
No rising tide can lift my boat.
Surrendering to the swarm, drifting down.
Thinking I’ll wash up on the other side of town.
But what sinks down doesn’t wash up.
Unless I never left the pub?
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on June 16, 2018.