Brine hung in the air
like drapes in the musty mansion
of a Dickens’ novel.
(I’ve been on a Dickens kick.)
I built a fort to empty my mind
and at first succeeded,
but only for a few minutes.
Off shore, pelicans dive bombed the ocean.
I broke a sweat and pulled off the tattered V-neck.
I used to teach in this sweater,
now I build forts in it for survival.
Not many sweaters ride that arc.
A man who looked like Jesus from the movies,
walked along the trail above me.
I swear he gave me a blessing
and then disappeared into the mist.
Jesus in the mist.
None of that in the New Testament.
Torpor gripped me,
I fight the torpor imposed upon me,
by a formidable enemy
gorged on cannibalism.
I fight with friends, forts, words, eagles,
rivers, trees, birds, beaches and dogs
as my allies.
We fight in the open and we fight in secret.
We always fight on the high road.