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II Afternoon
At low tide, mud flats
Run out for a half mile,
Empty beer cans dot the horizon
Plastic cups mingle
With bleached bones and shells of the sea,
The feathered community along the shore
Ruffled slightly by the breeze
Silent, motionless, deep in thought.
The sun has lost its welcome
Time is now the enemy.
A harsh glare slants in from the bay,
Eyes squint and hunt the shade,
Friends and lovers long gone
Failures come back to roost
The guilt of things not done,
Once more outside the mainstream
A solitary figure on the skyline.
Jack Mashman
1982 |
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