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.
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
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.
Amazing
Being at the beach this week, this poem is about my son
#yesallmen
Love this
Wow, this poem is just wonderful!