I'm strolling the somber beach
of a quaint Maine village,
one steeped in its Atlantic footprint,
those waters restless even when calm,
forming leaden clouds,
employing the chilly wind
to blow them all shoreward.
There's no relaxation here.
Even the stillness is on the move,
edging westward, troubling as it moves overland.
Ominous is the word,
like when I read my morning newspaper,
supposedly for relaxation,
but the pages are full of floods and earthquakes -
and their human equivalents of course.
Every day is what should really be
a stroll along a beach.
But see how far that gets you.
Even if I win a hundred bucks on a scratch-ticket
or a pretty stranger sends a coy smile my way,
I can't convince myself that this is how it is.
Not with the sky this color.
Not when the first few drops of rain
land on my shirt color, my hair,
on my earlobe where they whisper,
"There's no fooling you, kid."
My world doesn't get ahead of itself,
doesn't take up acres of acres of space.
I'm quite content to contain it within
this gray sand, the Spartan rocks.
But the coming storm not only has such reach,
it can also get specific.
No doubt in my mind,
it's about to let me have it.
For happiness is a kind of dread.
Contentment is pure agony.
Yes, it's another lovely day
in a quaint Maine village.
But please, spare me the rotten details.