A Continental Drift

A Continental Drift The last time we argued, I went to bed hungry. I woke up in the middle of the 3 a.m. zone. You were snoring, so I crept outside. I turned off the house alarm. The last time I forgot, and I don’t ever want to face down the barrel of a shotgun again. I slid into my surf shoes. There’s a soft rain, almost like London fog spits, still all I wanted was to see the moon’s surface and look for him: the man. Where did he go? It seems as though we are on different continents lately, Asia Minor and possibly the equator, or some reef, even though that’s not wholly continental. Or holy. Because wherever I am, it’s hot. Indigenous. Everything too bright, rashy and irritable. I wake up sweating and want to club something, because you can sleep through train wrecks, plane departures, drifting tides and empty nests. And because I always believed I would see her again. Now the wind picks up and I shudder, because I would know you by the touch of ice on the tongue of the wind. And when I see that man in the moon through a cloud’s sliver, it makes me wonder if we are made of folks who don’t know we are even listening.   Robert here again: Please do consider entering the Flash Mob contest! You won’t be sorry!  ]]>