future shares…
In the few still moments before the
beachfront rental begins a-hoppin’
I spy with my two little eyes five
glass containers 1/3 filled with
seashells, three Pepsi bottles 1/2
full, two Pringles tubes with nothing
but crumbs, and one Cheese-Whiz
squirter with 1/4 of the processed
paste of happiness left if we’re lucky.
These are but a few of the fractions
of seven days spent with an ocean’s
eleven of kin, three family units of
common blood, the branches off a tree
trunk of paupers that barely eeked-out
bleak-ago winters by dreaming of white
sand by the cornflower sea and their
children’s-children who might one day
summer there like kings. We are the
partial sums of their full-slam hopes.
We are their future shares.
Killer!