Bluff Road
Tim Tomlinson

On a night without stars I walked along
the Bluff Road hoping nothing large would trip
me up. The surf, a minor wrinkle, curled

green with bioluminescence over
the reef, then gently joined the mangrove shoots
in the puddles my sneakers squished into.

My feet were wet. As usual my father
was on my mind, even if I didn’t
know it then. Knowing it now doesn’t change

the way the path leaned into the mouth of
a dog who bit before barking as if
he knew better than I did what was on

my mind. The ghost with the straw hat lived there
alone, laughing. But it didn’t sound like
laughter then. Not much did, not even my own.

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