Everyday

A meteor shower to mark the end of
another solitary summer spent wondering
what to do. What to do?

The sodium light lit roads lead me to the
beach where I hope to sit and see flashes
that will prove time is still forging on.

But the stars are gone, painted over with
soot black clouds that periodically glow
bright with lightning.

So I sit on the sand, cut my hand as I try
to open a beer, and it's too dark to see the
blood, but I can see the waves rising in white rows.

Some lights up the beach, a family with kids
carrying flashlights. They shine them at me as
they walk past, and I keep my bloody hands down.

I'd like to stand up and walk with the family,
head back to their musty, dimly lit cottage.
It'd be my vacation, and I might finally be able to sleep.

A poem

I've been trying to write some poems lately. I like that I can finish a poem fast, before I get bored--unlike with stories--and how poems force me to use my words carefully. Anyway, here's a poem I wrote. Enjoy.

You wrung me out

like some stained and threadbare
rag dropped carelessly on the
sunny ground to dry hard,
rough. To be forgotten.

Leaves collected on me and
ants pattered across my crusty
surface. Rain fell and I soaked
it up. And then I became
covered with dirt and sank down
and became the ground.

I'm not Abraham Lincoln

No sir, do not confuse me with the 16th president of the United States, Mr. Abraham Lincoln. While we share some similarities with regards to disposition--melancholic--I don't think one should make the error of mistaking me for Lincoln. However, I did undergo a moral dilemma today, and in this time of uncertainty, was able to recall stories I heard about Honest Abe and his upstanding character. (To any ultra-conservatives out there, what Lincoln did with Joshua Speed in that room in Springfield is none of your business.)

What happened today was that I received change for a fifty when I'd actually handed the cashier a twenty. The restaurant where I was dining was crowded, and I definitely could have just slipped the extra cash into my wallet and walked out. But I imagined a crude, 1850s era color illustration of a gangly Lincoln wearing high water trousers with suspenders and a white cotton shirt walking down a dirt road to return a few cents to some old woman he'd overcharged. I thought of Lincoln on that road with his head full of ideas about goodness and honesty and his pocket full of change that wasn't rightfully his. As much as I could use some extra money, I gave the cash back to the cashier because I figure something good will come around t0 me because of it. Also, I think now people will be more inclined to confuse me with Lincoln.