by jamh

For weeks I walk the streets
of this pretty town by the sea
while overhead, white among gray,
annoyed seagulls tirelessly shriek
their disapprovement of me.

In my wake, my trenchcoat
drags leaves like a sharp keel.
I am invisible. A dark ghost ship
searching the seafloor, with fingers
that mistake junk for its lost anchor.

To be frank, I expected more,
say as a victorian, a romantic
or a soul that tosses and turns
waiting for something that burns.
You'd rightly say: “Oh, please!

Do you not have eyes that see?
Roll up your sleaves! dig!
Is this world that surrounds you
not call upon, not plead
a stance, a gesture of relief?

As a boy, you could say a cloud,
lost in daydreams, sword in hand,
prevailed against distress, or fear.
But now, a grown man, in power,
taking the mantle of a clan?”

That's just it, you see, I was born
in unreality. I dealt with the world
all of my adult life, and now,
with the glimmer of the endless row,
tired, or unfulfilled all in all, I return.




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