cast away
sitting sober on picnic table
made of driftwood
I wonder when in the world
my checkered cloth will arrive
I stare out at the ocean
where an angel without wings
hangs ten while blowing kisses my way
I tell myself she’s just having fun
though I’m sure if she wanted
she could move these continental shelves
much faster to california
last night I built a cathedral out of sand
wherein the choir sang until the rains came
in the morning the beach was new again
and all I could do was pray
to the father and the son
and the ghost of my former self
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
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