Late—The Beach Poems, Day One

index 5
The Beach Poems, Day One

Though I worked two weeks
straight to leave at eight

a.m. for the beach, I am late
late late. While I pack and

repack the new cartop carrier
on the new/old car,

my family circles like buzzards,
only more impatient. We

have danced this dance before
and before—trust me—

frantic and sweaty as I struggle
to prioritize power

cords, books, t-shirts, and last
directions about the dog.

In my town, the funeral Director
used to joke that Mrs. Leonard

would be late for her own
funeral—and she was

because of a train. Maybe
it’s just me, but I find life

to be a train that kindly stops
stops and stops at every

depot, no matter how small,
old, or out of the way.


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