more than a little good

"nice ass,"
I say, each time
she runs past the pavilion;
she has her ear buds in, though,
and hears nothing
on this quiet morning,
with fish racing,
gulls hovering,
leaves rustling,
time playing out
its last bit of string,
as the sun continues
to bleach these rocks,
and an older man
tries to record it all,
reflecting,
refracting,
recollecting;
but dammit
someone needs to
pull those ear buds out,
and tell her that all that running
has done
more than a little good.



November 8, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.