Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Eighteen Winter 2008 |
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 |