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