prose house

unstrung thoughts
days run together
marking time with minus tides
weather is shifting sand
dark clouds gather like gossips
fat bellies hanging low on the horizon
ripe with rain for another town
not this one
not this time
sun slips away
fingers of silver light
rays like heaven
escape evening's grasp for a moment
as night falls
windlessly
on Prose house

j

So, maybe all I needed was time at the beach. It is always a crapshoot, renting a beach house online, but we really lucked out this time. I only picked Prose house because Sid could come. He loves the beach. We crabbed. He crabbed. I drove the boat, more successfully this time. I maneuvered it slowly beside the marking bouys, and pulled and pulled the rope. No crab. All girls. K crabbed non-stop, and finally got five, which we ate up last night like little piggies.

Prose house had a crate & barrel kitchen, very go mod, and all new cabinets with swing-out wire shelving, round and shiny, nothing hiding in the back. Not yet anyway. Made me long for new appliances. new yard. new house. new stuff. I can have anything I want, so my honey tells me. I will. But it, like anything, will all be obsolete one day.

There was an old photograph of the house at the top of the stairs. When it was built, it was the only house around, and two narrow lanes between it and the beach. Now, there are other houses, and one of the roads has been taken by the sea, or global warming, or erosion, or whatever. I guess if I live long enough, this will be oceanfront property. Not long if you listen to the worriers. I know, I know. It is bad.

I wrote that poem in the guestbook. Everyone else wrote exactly the same thing: Hey, thanks! Great kitchen! Great view. I guess it just took me more words to say that same thing.

I am verbose.

I am not verbose enough.

You pick.