3954. CARTMAN BY THE SEA

CARTMAN BY THE SEA   
Take the life from my heart and arms, shield

no longer my soul and feelings. I am bent with

sickness and I walk the land, staggering. I am

watching the sea; it is spread before me, with a

rumble and roar, pitching forward to then recede.

What are these waves but the tenets of my own

pale life? A battered presence, a ram of indication,

everything occurring at once, as if I should really

take note. All these little men, waving and raking

their seaside leaves. I shall leave them here.

-

To tremble, I walk away thinking of cities instead

of this sea  -  I find firmer stuff in the concrete and

glass, than whatever meanings these tired, old lands

of the harbor conceal. Old wooden boats, a listing

surfside lighthouse, the cocktail lounge of a tired

yacht men's clubhouse  -  all those aged yet pretty

ladies, walking on their Sunday heels and out for

dinner on a prance. Some singer up front attracts

nothing as much as the flies and a cat.

-

No one listens anyway. I am sorry I ever came here -

just another foolish man, seeking solace and wine,

coming out to dine and squander some money

where others, in need, could have used it more.

Take the life from my heart, and cart me away.