Lighthouse Waves

                                                                               

                                                                                                    








 
Perception in Late Night

I work the graveyard shift in ‘67
Stock shelves of “Marlboro Country”
For California slickers, tubes of
Ultra Brite “sex appeal”
Brushed by grim oldsters,
And Olympia, “it’s the water”
For partying young adults;

 I close the flashy cooler,
Pick up the empty card boxes,
Crumple and dump them in the trash bin;
Across the street a Texaco filling station 
Slogans forth rusted, “Trust your car to the man
Who wears the star,” but its “vacant for lease” sign 
Came from the only auto to ford 
Those shallow words.

I lean on a metal stool behind
The counter, no customers; its past 
The midnight hour; so I
Close my tired eyes,
Rub my warm forehead,
The feel of bone so arched like a vault,
My skull under skin

Almost Neanderthal,
And my sense of self in that inner cave
Of stored memories, procedures and ads;
What will be left in the finite end?

Suddenly like a lighted tidal wave
Overwhelming self and night,
Wide  a  w  a  r   e   n    e    s    s 
Oceans deep--
Awash in God.


Previously published in
Word Catalyst Magazine





Less Is More  

When young
I knew so much
So I thought 
But the  less time
The  less I know
By the time of my death
I will know nothing
But will be known
By God who knows all 


Previously published in
Western Friend Magazine

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