Down the Shore

For meters on end

the air hustles to a stop,

a hurried silence

on a walk.

I pass a tree--

each leaf rustles in my passing

tinkering off one another

like knocking into a chandelier.

I walk on.

Brisk is the breeze, full and easy,

showing teeth, a bite of cold.

I step to a man-made reservoir,

the kind used for water maintenance for the neighborhood.

The sun blasts thru from behind the curtain of trees that line the back of that short waterfront.

Unnatural, it's presence, a man-made

imitation pond, I resent it almost fully,

were it not for the undeniable pleasantry

of the taut surface tension,

the birds' playing chirpfully,

and the touch of seclusion that it holds.

Big tractor trucks line the street

and trash from the truckers

lines the banks of this bit of make believe shoreline.

I want to slap each of them on the wrist,

smack each of them in the face (nothing too harsh though)

and make them pick it all up,

every bit of blasphemed pollution they put out,

the cans, the bottles, the bags, tires and broken glass--

the scourge of our single-serve society--take it all back,

let it fill their living rooms.

But they're not in sight,

and nor is my authority.

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Down the Shore

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