I let myself sleep until noon,
and wake to the whirl of the ceiling fan,
set on high, against the summer heat —
lost up there, among the blurring blades,
nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to meet,
loving the emptiness of my own life.
Restlessness no longer taunts.
Inactivity brings no guilt —
a madman’s sensibilities
or a newly-shaven zen monk’s:
a little liberated, and a tad off-kilter.
Evenings spent along the boardwalk —
drawn back by salt air to a disparate realm
of recognizable strangers.
Long Beach is a foreign place, and I’m an alien
come from trees, grass, and shade.
No trees, here, for the late sun to abuse,
and always sand gritting between my toes.
No grass, except that kind
whose earthy fragrance perks my ears
and makes me hum “Greensleeves,”
after The Dead at Nassau, years ago.