Somewhere between here and there,
one must reach his hands above his head,
back flat on the floor,
eyes closed,
and jump headfirst
into that storm brewing inside of him
so he may find
the cold, calm eye of a hurricane
where everything is noise
and promise,
flickering bulbs
and static on the radio:

There is a difference between
being alone
being lonely.

No boy is an island,
but laying on the beach,
the rocks warm,
the tide rises,
the sun sets,
and, at the end of the day,
when all is done
but not necessarily said,
even the footprints in the sand
(one by one by one)
march into the ocean,
despite lightning in the distance.

This is a place I could stay,
though the greens will fade with the years
and the distance in my mind
makes me question
if it was a pelican or a seagull
that landed on that mossy rock
or if there was a mossy rock
or if there was a beach at all,

but, for now, I'm back,
flat on my back,
arms above my head,
an island
surrendering to what once was,
save for a whispering breeze
and rust on my bicycle spokes
and a few slowing breaths
resembling a rallentando in 7/8 time.



Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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