July Night, Revere Beach Boulevard
Rusty Barnes

The traffic sniffs at the breeze,
a great lion of cowardice set
off by the scent of fried clams.

At a pavilion a Quaker group
laps at their ice cream in the calm
ocean air set off by kites with lights

flying near the water. I wish these props
were permanent, the life we choose
corresponding with the one we live,

and after all of us have clambered
to the top of a building poised
on the brink for the slow shocking

shuffle into nothing as far away
a stunned man watches us through

a telescope. We seem from the distance
like ants slowly tumbling off a table,

one by agonizing one.

Return to Archive