Morning Beach

The sun had yet to reach its peak

and the Atlantic lapped at my feet,

tickling my sun like an excited dog’s wild tongue.

I strolled, my feet crunching shells,

leaving reminders behind in the sand.

My gaze struck a delicate,

red, and purple scallop shell,

the colors mixing in its grooves,

a majestic castle for a past king.

I reached for it,

my fingertips brushing the rough sand,
and my fist closed around the weathered cup.

Where Were You?

When the ominous clouds began to roll over the skyline,

crying cool droplets,

drenching the three of them

while they stood on the rear deck of the water taxi

their tattered clothes slowly soaking up the rain

the setting sun glowing behind Liberty's silhouette

Where were you?

Were you at home,

checking snapchat every minute

for a new story,

blanky driving through a virtual maze of highways,

with the need for speed?

or were you

just hoping for the repeated vibrations of an incoming call,

and the words

“wanna hang out?”

Robert Fulton (edited)

Brown hair cascades over her shoulders,

like water spilling off a steamboat wheel

her tight striped shirt hugs her,

like her future husband will

her green eyes, murky and mysterious,

like a lazy Louisiana stretch of river

With tiny hands she furiously

jots notes (Robert Fulton-inventor of steamboat)

And now she’s standing on the deck

hair waltzing with the wind,

white dress billowing around her knees.

She smiles, the spray jumps up around her,

the dry sun twinkles off the droplets.

Her wide brimmed sun hat

suddenly is soaring through the sky,

running away along the river.

She laughs because she is happy,

I laugh because I am happy,

the steam streaming behind us.

That Itchy Kind of Towel (not remorse edited)

i want to be the memory

triggered

(like a AK-47)

in her mind

when she unearths

that crumpled photo,

buried under a mountain of

clothes and papers,

when she gazes back into

the green of the grass and the

red of the towel

the itchy kind

her parents hopefully wouldn't

mind getting dirty

her hands in mine

our warmth,

i just want to be the memory

that triggers

a secret grin on her face

Nightwalking

You've stumbled

Through the curtain of night

Tripping over sidewalk cracks

Past the deli owner

Smoking his cigarette, puffing the grey into cool air

Along the nearly empty streets, the occasional car purring by

Headlights piercing the dark cloak

The streetlights blurry and fantastical

Inhaling your shirt to see

If the party had hitched a ride with you

And now you're in bed, 

A swinging cloud, a never ending carousel of blankets

And you lay there, till your brain

Decides it's had enough