27 November 2009

p.a.d. -- day twenty-six

Of the Waves
for Kenneth


A little boy
stands on a box
in too-big blue jeans,

munching on
carrot sticks and
singing Dylan.

We rush through
dinners, school days,
birthdays,

barely stopping to
bend and breathe in
the sweet and salty.

He stands on a
cardboard box bare-
foot and plucks a

guitar, his ten fingers and
toes are gulls that
say good luck

slowing us down. The
boy who swells and
breaks like every

breath is every-
thing. The boy who
knows a clock different

from the one hanging
on the kitchen wall. The

boy whose laughter draws
honey from the
roaring sea.

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