Twenty-seven miles ahead on this barren road
stands a boy, quietly, among the sea-oats
kicking his feet through the imported sand.
Behind him is the loud world
he does not understand and me,
driving along at forty-five with the windows down.

Salty air blows in and flicks at my eyelashes,
the stereo speakers vibrate in the door
tickling the fine hairs on my leg as it rests against the panel;
Portishead sings on in the background,
all I hear are sounds, all I see are sporadic yellow lines
guiding me along the cool, grey asphault.

I've waited for this night all sultry summer long;
the months we spent apart trickled down
onto me as my sweat trickled down onto the towel
I had spread among the dead grasses
which fouled the calm of my man-made beach.
Nothing escaped the torture of the sun.

When the road ends I will step out
as the dense night air embraces me warmly.
His white smile will brighten the sand as I float
towards him, light as the sea-oats.
But he will be heavy, like the sand, and waiting,
still, for the tide to come and pull him away.

08/13/2006

Posted on 08/13/2006
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood