Ocean of Discontent

On my way down the stairs
I stop to feel the boards
that spring back, wobbling
with regret. I've been here
many times, each visit bringing
me to the same spot, each time
a little farther than before.

Or is it just my imagination
running away from me?
Tonight the tide is high
and I'm holding on
to this awkward ledge
with muscles I didn't know
I'd ever have to use, just to
write this message on my
phone, blot out the emptiness

with its glow. When I first sat
on the rock, I looked out at
the sound of waves getting
too close and thought that
there weren't enough pixels

in my mind to turn the vast
gray noise into something
worth remembering. Only
the one light on the water
made the spectacle bearable.

But I drowned it anyway
with this light in my hands.
Sometimes I lift my eyes
to see the rectangle blur out

over the breakers, leaving a
blank to hover in their wake.
The water is almost at my feet
now, I hear the little rocks
make the sound of popcorn

right before it's ready. It's time
to go back, though I could
stay until there was nothing
left but a piece of useless
plastic, buried in the sand.

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Wonderland