lily soft
drapes over the evening bay,
I walk along the shore
the line shifts with the tide,
I witness a croaker
washed up on the beach
gaze at its flat eyes.
Between the gray water
and houses
where many windows
are closed,
is a small, wooden cross
encircled by shells and stones,
A picture of a young woman
in a crisp, white Marine cap
leans against
the cross's dogwood foot,
green laughter winks
in her eyes,
I pause
then depart,
listening to the waves' dissolve.
Walking over the oil-stained road
Think about another letter
typed in courier black.
(c)Kent Miller
published in Skipping Stones 2007
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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