Thursday, March 10, 2011

Day 69

Dock of the Bay

by Patrice Lauren

Saturday, April 26, 2003

Sitting by the water brings melancholy. One side is water, the other land, and I sit in the middle, confused and drawn to each--hearing Otis Redding croon a song of lonliness.

Have you seen the boats,

the sailboats,

moored to the docks,

held back by their ropes and anchors

like gold chains glittering alight of gaudy decoration,

with usage showing more practical purpose?

The waves are beating harsh this day

awash against the concrete steps of the bay,

lapping at my bare feet.

Man-made concrete I ground myself in.

The waves pulsate awry,

wind blowing raw and harsh with words of warning to my presence

against all further intrusion.

The waves become my tears

full of fears

of now,

and tomorrow.

I sit by the dock of the bay,

listening to a song in my head

that won't go away, like the lonely wail

of the southest gale. . .

wailing in my head.

That empty echo of lonliness.

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