Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Eighteen
Winter 2008
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Stick Figures of Me
           Ocean Shores, Washington, at Night
Brian McMillan

The Pacific is somewhere. Out there, beyond
the reach of hotel flood lights,
all is black. Below my balcony,
the floods bleach chest-high grasses:
August snowdrifts.
In my hotel room, at the octagonal table,
my laptop sleeps by a TV remote, a Tootsie Roll,
a Larry McMurtry novel, some
stick figures of me.
My son’s picture books
are strewn about the carpet. It’s late.
I shut off the light and crawl into bed next to him,
his body stretching only half the length
of the hard mattress. It’s right to retire now,
to not tire myself out by reading too late.
I want plenty of energy
for tomorrow’s sand castles.
I lie in bed, the room black and gone.
Next to me, he’s snoring: the hiss of hydraulics,
a rake through gravel, an ordering rhythm.
I could listen for hours, I think. I could
listen for hours while he sleeps. I cheat the day
by getting up—just for a moment—to jot down
some notes for a poem, to keep this moment
for another day when I’ll need it again.

About Brian McMillan

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