Atlantic Avenue

Shattered shards of sunlight
off the greyish noontime clouds;
I am not tied down to the day.

Moisture still penetrates the air,
the sky is right, and I lace up my shoes,
music in my hand; a one-strap
backpack with cloth patches of bands
I haven’t listened to for years
but I’m stepping out,
so feet, don’t fail me now.

The inches of green that flutter and wave
goodbye: I’m led somewhere alive.
It buzzes and honks,
creates and destroys,
pollutes me with noise
but it’s alive.

My headphones drown
out the passing sounds,
suggesting the soundtrack
to the final scene of
another pretentious art house
film we should have never written.

Still, content, I march
towards the harbor
towards the sunset
of cliches, of every beautiful metaphor
that she’s already fallen for, but still
I’m stepping out:

Feet, don’t fail me now.

She offers me a penny for my thoughts.
“This is it,” I say, as I smile, laugh,
and make a wish.

One response to “Atlantic Avenue

  1. Pingback: Another Oldie But A Goodie (angsty?) | thom dunn

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