I watch as:
Someone’s tragic windblown umbrella;
Ambles the edge of concrete and asphalt,
Like a drunk crab trolling along
The beach tidal borderline.
Imagine I am not at the bus stop.
I close my eyes on the commuter train.
Dreaming a snow crab voice-over
I once read for Red Lobster.
A beach bird, umbrella and then me at the
Bus stop again trying not to get,
Blown down the curb of life’s boulevard;
Walking the best that I can,
Often lost, alone and crabby.
Pushing to catch that last wave
Towards the needed pot of gold.
These mercurial March mornings,
I awaken to a new bird-call of spring daily
In this old and new former place.
Where I exist in spite of failure’s frustration;
In the temporary solitude of the barrel of many Indies,
Among those of you who I do not want to see.
