Shroud

It was an odd fog this morning,
cresting like a wave
in the silence of the night
upon the broken shores of
Deadman's Hollow.

I belong to the sea,
he said,
his windows rolled down,
as if sending an invitation
to the pallid blanket over the city.

The Road, he thinks,
is a narrow strip of suicide,
never changing, and
gritty. There is no more here than
a constant expanse to an endless
arrow.

The scenery starts looking the same.
At least it shares this with the sea,
around you is nothing but water
and you think you could drown in
the constant reflection
of salty tide.

There is unidirectionality,
a oneness of everything.
It's a battle of wits
to convince yourself that the
age you race toward
is also what propels you forward,
every bump in the road
is a new wrinkle...

But it pains him to think this
as his wheels do all the work.
In the ocean, he thinks,
he'd put in his miles on his hands.
The salt-air burning scars into his
face. The sun beating him down
into a yoke of toil.
He would enjoy life, finally.

Meanwhile, his cell phone chirpped.
The fog lifted silently, like a plague,
and the world blew up around him.

Comments