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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