Maybe the day is coming.


There's a salesman's sky overhead and the fishing boats are returning to the docks.
One by one.
Swaying buoys and rippled tides and severed memories.
Refunds; not even nine AM.
Clouds just rolled on in.
Heavens pour.

I'm on the porch with the cash box, listening to the rain.
Shaking it every so often to myself;
hoping she can hear it, and hoping she's okay.

Shame.
Disgrace.
I can feel it like a magnet;
charged thunder.
Mastercard.
More ripples.


Six months ago this day.
Gray like a particular tombstone.
Overwhelming loneliness creeping up my spine,
snaking around to my heart.

Planes in the distance, maybe.
Fading across the shore.
My hair stands on end and the water ripples.