Low tide,
59 degrees
fog lines the hills
a plane overhead,
sounds like distant thunder
I’m walking behind
a woman in red running
mild breeze shy on my neck,
kayakers riding towards the ocean
I pass an empty bench
an invitation, a luxury
I’m too old
to sit down
Mrs. Abstract will find me frozen
I have other ideas
like loose leaves in my notebook
come,
let’s ride the tide
let’s go upstream
come.




