A Man Must Dig a Hole
He’s at the beach, no choice.
He will be ground down by the time
he knows the hole is done,
when the sand has grown
too soupy for the shovel,
and the sea seeps up from
the hundred million smaller holes
that are the substance of his hole,
its unsolid and receiving floor.
A man must fling a plank,
if one washes up, with all his might.
He must make it skid several inches
on its narrow end, so that it sprays
a dry plume of white sand.
A man must throw a rock at another rock,
arms high over his head,
in the hope that the soggy porous stone
will crumble like wet cake,
or, failing that,
that the impervious volcanic stone
will resist him with a satisfying crack.
On rare occasions a man (read: ten year old me) must also throw a rock at another man, who’s standing shirtless across the creek -- right hand holding a beer, left arm held up like a target -- shouting “hit me!” while mistakenly assuming he won’t actually be hit
This poem makes me want to go back to the beach. I also enjoy it’s slice of life quality.