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Beachcomber




It is now long since you were gone.

Swamped with sea air and hints of salt.
Dead fish and stranger things—obsolete
catalogs of difference and sameness,
inventories of obsolescence—roll
on plastic waves.

The sun still reddens twice each day
in passing to see my struggle to celebrate
my stubborn little world of accidental austerity
denied by every eroded grain of sand.

Every memory a seance summoning flotsam
to blaspheme against the dream
that nothing is sacred.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.