This Morning / July 2009

I went to the beach this morning,

like every other Oregon morning,

watched gulls drink from a stream,

the crippled dog lag behind,

the old dog lag farther behind.

The waves rolled in, bringing their bright clear spaces.

I left the beach and went to the club,

watched a woman from a Gram Parsons song,

slide to the mic, rise on tiptoes,

begin to sing.

Her low-slung brown cords slid even lower.

I heard her sing Neil Young

and this was not the day the music died

but lived.

I left the club and went to the beach,

wanting waves to annihilate my former not so helpless self,

wash away the acid and the damage done,

To have the ocean—and her—become the drug that makes you dream,

as Neil Young once sang.

I picked up the pace, picked up a stick.

The crippled dog caught up,

the old dog too.

I felt like writing her name in the fresh unmarked sand

with the stick, so I did,

on a morning finer than most.