Pollution


As the brackish sea breeze looped over the dunes
A dying sun draped golden trail over dappled sea.
I ambled alone, losing salty tears for all the years
I spent getting lost and losing credibility.

A seagull, full of grace, rode the breeze and didn’t move,
Beak pointed to foreign horizons, eyes looking down at me.
It cawed or cried. I am an old man, eight years from a century,
I am a phantom unseen. Have I ever been other than fragility?

I turn burned images over and over – so tragic,
Step onto an empty coke can, pick it up, mindlessly throw it.
The light wind blows it back to my feet ……….
I need my life again, as I ungraciously outgrow it.

***************

As an orchestra dispels volumes around the Albert Hall,
Crammed audience, open mouthed, open beaked, sing …….
A testament, a tribute to a departed ancient rock star,
Who did no more than be shameful, shocking, appalling.

Long wispy white hair and I still do drugs,
Mixed with a little fine wine, maybe a young lady too.
My legs finally give way, I’m bathed in salty spray,
My big day, my finale, I forget to pray, payments overdue.

And the seagull swoops for my salad sandwich.
I’m recorded but done nothing for evolution.
And over the years the dunes are reformed,
Was I a part, or a part of pollution.

Hello Rusty,
You never cease to amaze me with your work. You definitely have a talent for description. I felt the ocean. I felt each emotion this man had. I particularly was haunted by the phrase. "I need my life again as I graciously outgrow it." Aging has a way of making us feel exactly that, and you, Sir, worded it beautifully. Thanks.
Suzanne