November 9, 2018
The empty boardwalk felt like an alleyway, and I a tin can, kicked by a man down a narrow street. I am only an echo (reverberating), a resounding clamor to rouse a pair of lovers in the apartment above me.
They who lay on sex-stained sheets, cradled in the chapel of each other’s arms, cocooned in a sweet heat created by flesh, and still savoring the night’s taffy and musk on their lips. They who are startled, but mistaking my emptiness as the scurry of rats, embrace a little tighter, their bodies rustling like leaves, and settle back together, to exhale softly.
I am all clanging and rattling, as a I collide with the potential of this seedy, one-horse town; dented and bruised as I ricochet off the cold cement of what it has become. Wailing and flailing wildly, not knowing as I turn, where I am, or what is earth and what is sky.
Then finally coming to rest, quietly among the trash of the dunes, left by others in the wake of a Summer gone, I think I want to murder the one who kicked me, or maybe thank him. And the man in the apartment above me, who covets the woman as he does his own breath, whispers gently,
“It’s nothing my love. Nothing at all. Go back to sleep.”
And they do.