THIS IS A POEM ABOUT DRIFTWOOD AND SPIDERS 7.26.17

7.26.17

Morning comes.

This window gives out

onto the beach, where water

tremendous in its reach

kneads the shorelines smooth

of imperfections.

Except the place remains

like a stain of blood

against porcelain,

where the night before,

near the bleached skeleton

of driftwood

you struck me in the face

and called me, Brother.

Good morning,

you say, as I enter

the kitchen on a wave

of pleasant energy,

seven smiles from the others

and the smell of bacon

and coffee and fresh bread;

you forgot

they never knew

but I remember.

The left side of my face

is swollen, and Nolan

asks me what happened.

A bug bit me

I say.

A pesky spider no bigger

than a penny but with

fangs like needlepoints

and guts the color of

spilled

ink.


Written at 12:19 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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