along the dock,
one hand pocketed
in saggy jeans,
the other on taut lips
where you drag the last
of a Marlboro.
I watch you toss
the butt in the river,
grab your iPhone- –
camo cover- –
squinty eyes focused
I try to reach your attention,
beg for some respect
but my lapping waves
only stir up debris
and the oily smell
of diesel exhaust.
as it washes away
with more unwanted junk- –
a plastic sack caught on stray log,
two tires and a water bottle- –
hoping for another chance.
She is the Beach
We agreed to protect our beaches
from all the tar and seaweed marring her land
so waves won’t spray spume on debris
seen for miles, washed up from shore to shore.
When she breathes, we want clarity
in and out with the tide
in and out as we run along her shore
hand in hand like a couple in love
not rubbish marring each breath
with gasps of despair
tainting our expectations.
We want gentle waves
void of fishy fumes or brackish smack
like bruises on arms from drunk nights
the beating she can’t hide no matter how hard she tries
to bury her pride in the sand.
Miscarriage of Hope
On the cusp: another 24 hours, the barren sky bleeding coral
your yellow pail, half-buried in seaweed, reeking rotten catch.
When did dusk arrive like stirred up sand?
At the water’s razor edge sinking, still sinking?
Moon so out of reach, I grasp the air but you’re not there.
Each wave a lure calling me out to join the sea
where every hour-long minute won’t recreate
wonder of what might have been
elusive eyes I’ll never know won’t haunt me
with regret of how I failed you
when you slipped out of my hands.
When will this feeling end?