statue of poseidon

I can imagine what he suffers, I think. I know more than thing or two about anatomy and morbidity. I didn’t go to med school but I can tell he barely breathes.

There’s the apparent dementia, or aphasia or whatever divide betwixt the cognitive and the communicative, maybe even my own fatigue or misdirection, and all of it shall collide here where all the sea meets Ventnor to stay or to leave.

When this was just a childish dream, such a gift of beach, the thought of the sand castle alone would be satisfying. But knowledge is so much more than this, and I’ve got an arsenal. Look at how I am blessed, and yet, here he is supposedly in charge of it all, and stands on a beach block lawn overlooking the boardwalk, and still remains rather motionless and emotionless. Why does he not too breathe in and breathe out the delicious breeze?

I know what I think. Must stink being such a god.


Published in Sentinel Literary Quarterly, 2018

 
Written by Joe Bisicchia on 10/07/18
© 2018 Joe Bisicchia

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