An Object That Did Not Serve Its Purpose

no disclaimers

My morning is mauve,

behind me a golden thread

outlines the horizon.

Purple waves retreat

from a collage of gray pebbles.

A gull caws a fanfare as

ocean charges dry land.

I stand ankle deep.

Pacific waters numb my toes.

Brown fish nibble dead skin

caught in my leg hairs.

You bob my way unnoticed

battling to stay above the surface.

You poke my calf.

I hardly glance down.

You float back about a foot

and riding the ebb of

water swelling earth

you fling yourself against my calf.

Your efforts merit my attention.

I pick you up,

swollen cork,

about as shorte as my thumb.

The initials FS

are scratched on your face:

Fredrick Shwartz,

Franchesca Simpson,
Frank Sinatra.

Someone sent you out with a task.

Perhaps it was urgent.

Perhaps, stranded or sinking,

FS scribbled their final words

and entrusted you to deliver them to me.

Maybe you didn't fit the bottle

or maybe you weren't pushed in enough.

All I know is that you abandoned your sister

and here unclot orifice was bombarded by

ocean endlessly pouring,

disintegrating FS's sentiments.

Reviews

[sienikeha]

interesting.