Got one boot off
kicking through waves
that would roll me under
and pull me away.
See that sun going down?
She’ll be back
to warm the shore,
where seagulls flock
and hop a couple of times before running
with the focus of my camera lens. And if I should get carried away
without a reliable raft,
if back floating only filled my lungs with salt
after it passed through my cracked lips,
He’d toss me a glass bottle message:
drink the rain. . .
Saw me off a branch from his olive tree just to send me something peaceful
I can cling to
sow the driftwood
becomes the tree he grew, to carve into the stories,
Whispers of stormy winds around his lighthouse
and how he is driven to pull his bow across my gut strings
just to listen to me sing. . .
An empty cigar box strung into pluck and strum and I become his ChickiBoom.