Reflections while walking

Along the beach I walk, noticing curves of the boardwalk, graceful arc of rollercoaster foundations, distilled motion. Heavy metals swirling, lumped like fossils of pleasure, fairground dinosaurs.

“It is cold,” I think.

“I am not lost.”

I sing Fire and Rain, James Taylor, let my voice stay steady though a cop walks nearby. No one hears when I sing.
I wave, he asks if I am alright to walk alone.

There is a nail in my shoe, old bowling-style shoes I bought at the Bargain Barn- fifty cents and an hour of searching to find the mate. Which I did. Miracles exist, if rarely.


Michael Ray!
My friend from high school, biking home from Seabright brewery with Drake and a guy I do not know.

Are you turning around? You didn’t have to turn around.

His face shines intently, he is dewy sweat in the moonlight, hopped up on beer and adrenaline.

I walk on, reminding my shoulders to breathe even though it is nighttime, even though people scare me, post-Jerusalem, sometimes.
Past the Mexican market where I will buy cotija cheese and pretend I am still travelling.

I am travelling.


Over the bridge, San Lorenzo River. Moon is a watery egg in midnight currents.
It is early enough, I still have time. 

Stillness is the move. This is a song I like, from Isabel, on the mix she made before we left Paros. One year in a few months.
Stillness in motion, continuity over time. Way of tracing History. Mr. Burr taught, 12th grade, when I took the class to learn, not because I had to. Formulaic. But.

Walk past man on porch step, leg hair and cigarette smoke curling.
Flower twines up wall of Cafe Luccio’s. Should check job application status. Should butter up my resume with cotton candy smile. Should I?

Flower catches light, breathes night shine.
Think about plucking it. Walk on, let others admire.
Do-gooder.
Dad would be proud.

Cross Ocean at Paradox, shoulders breathe, breathe.
No homeless on the sidewalk, booze and hungry eyes.
Past playground where no children. Except.
Ayla did, when she was here.

Drop backpack in wicker chair, air September musky, though it is Autumn now, the 10th month with the 8 name. Latin.

Home.

Rough yellows add to canvas, waits for me like a dog, wags sad half-finished tail. Patience. Get there you will young obi matissenobi.
Let it breathe for a few days, heavy paint muck, but beauty, it’s not so bad.
Patience. Home. Breathe.


There is still time.