|Going for Coffee
Here in Portsmouth I watch the ocean grow old,
go gray around the ears, sputter blood till I can't
make out a word. Already the sound of it bores me,
the was and lull, the pressures of standing knee-deep
in something spiritual. The tide turns from the seawall,
retreating in shame. I feel like a child pinned
beneath an x-ray blanket. I regret last night's wine,
regret leaving the stereo on. It's true my musical tastes
assume violent aspects at 3 am. This morning
I woke half –consumed by the seam between bed
and wall—awakened from dreams of calling for water,
crying out till my throat swelled shut.
Down on the beach, men scratch their heads
at what came ashore. It's hard to feel good about coffee
when I picture the sand on their pant legs like that.