1.
The rogue wave that washed you off the blanket, sent you
tumbling across the beach with the folding chairs,
cooler, sunscreen, car keys in a hiss of surf and foam
to the exact spot where I stood and grabbed
your small hand.
The bridge I drove across in wheel-deep flood waters
on a storm-whipped night, washed away by morning.
The car that jumped the curb, plowed a row
of sidewalk tables directly across the street
while we waited for the light to change, churning
pitchers of ice tea, plates of pasta, a stroller
into the sharp sun of a hot summer day.
2.
The pale young man
who climbs the stairs
to the roof of a building
with a clear view
of the street below.
The small delay.
We rode our bikes to the parade planning to watch from right where the shooting was, you wrote back the next day. They had us go around a detour so we were late for the start. We were about 200 feet away. First round we thought it was a performance at the grandstand. Second round and everyone was running.
Click here to read Todd Campbell on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by James Lee on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
- They Had Us Go Around a Detour - September 19, 2023