by Jack Liddell


The X-Ray showed that there is an empty sea town inside me.
It’s completely evacuated except for one old couple, who with
Oversized sunglasses and straw hats sit on the Victorian wrap-around.
They watch their ocean gulp the beach’s last dunes. Those castles crumble quietly
While the flood rises to their ankles and they wait.

And now I’m at my next appointment, sitting in the waiting room,
Praying the doctor finds a child wading toward their front porch,
Asking for ice cream truck money.


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