This modern wooden deck, hanging
over steel blue water,
will turn to driftwood
like those WWII bunkers,
hunkered down the path,
blood-rusting in fits of
Golden Gate Bridge International
Orange, like the last bank swallows,
nesting below in sandstone.
The ocean drums, a goatskin tar
to white noise slicing
the sky from SFO.
Lexie’s breath stinks like dog,
which she is, gray and chesty.
Her black nails quickly rip a hole
in my journal. She wants to know
what I’m doing here,
dogless. Her owner
pushes an empty stroller,
the baby strapped to her back.
Then they are gone,
exploring the carpet of
highway ice plant,
its bitter figs.
We are all confused.
——————–
Abby Caplin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Adanna, The Healing Muse, Night Train, OxMag, The Permanente Journal, Poetica, Tikkun, and several anthologies. She is a physician and practices Mind-Body medicine in San Francisco.
Monday, July 6th, 2015 1:43 pm
Categories: Archives, Issue 9.1, Poetry
