Poem: Dockside

It will take the sound of waves lapping ashore.

It’s the fortuitous embrace, the force of it,

until saltwater suffuses saltwater and you are certain

that you’ll return from whence you came.

Hanging inverted over a ledge with one foot

bouncing against the rock.

It will be releasing back into the void

things that were never, in the first place, yours to covet:

emotions. Trouble. The deep blue sadness.

The swell of pain behind the eyes because

you are imploring far too much of the future.

There are hailstorms in the middle of summer.

Lampposts inside which streetlights flicker,

and spit back bits of darkness into the air.

Things that don’t make sense.

Patience, as a virtue, only exists when it’s convenient to,

and someday,

you won’t anymore tremble at the thought of mediocrity

laid out in front of you in uniformed squares.

The necessity for rose-tinted glasses is fleeting,

but I am partial to the way they make the world look.