Fifty thousand times I have saidLichen on Gravestone
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry
But like the ocean wave
That returns and returns again
Pounding the beach
Soothing the beach
Forgiving the beach
There seems to be
No difference
No difference at all
You remain cold
With lichen crackling at your feet
Even when I bring ocean breezes
Even when I bring the sun
Even when I’m ready to start a fire
You refuse, then refuse again
As if I was little more than a piece –
No, not just a single useless piece but
a huge, whole overwhelming pile of rat infested, fly swollen, buzzard supporting trash
waiting for the clean-up crew
waiting for the truck
that will hold me and hug me and love me like I’ve never been loved before
to cart me away
away from you
and the misery you insist is my payment
my just deserts
my reward
and all my sorry’s
and didn’t mean it’s
and I’ll never do it again’s
mean no more than the next wave
or the last wave
or any surfer-riding, eight or nine or twelve foot wave
no more than the sand you walk on
or even the sand in your shoes
I didn’t want it to get to this point
But all I have left to say,

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