adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Four Time Seven, a poem

Four Times Seven

My brother had this thing
about always going back
the way he came.
So I won’t get wound-up,
he said. So I’m not
the only crazy one in the family,
just the most obvious.

The rocks just beneath the water—
I knew they were there
and didn’t care. A wave
is to be ridden and a broken
fin or maybe a toe
was sometimes the price
at my favorite break.

We laughed at each others jokes,
the ones no one else
seemed to get; were we
the perfect couple or just
the perfect audience?
The show is over and we
have both gone home.

Tide and sea breeze
have erased every line
I drew in the sand.
I will make new ones
tomorrow; nothing lasts,
after all, each line is
crossed and forgotten.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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