You Say I'm Too Repressed

A crushing tsunami—

the sea inhaling as deeply as it can.

A yogic breath,

then exhaling all the water

and startled swordfish

and stoic squid

and cynical sharks

and despairing dolphins

and human debris

and boats

filled with freaked-out fishermen.

My rage hurls all this over the land,

tearing down towering high-rise hotels

and tin-roofed shanties you try your best not to see

on your well-earned vacation.

To say nothing of your sandcastles

or the sunburned dad buried up to his neck in sand.

He’s really buried now.  Buried in my wrath.

The siren screams at you

to take shelter on higher ground,

but you’ll never have enough time, really.

Unless you were one of the wise animals

who looked up suddenly a day or two ahead of time

and thought,

Oh shit, I’d better get the hell out of Dodge.

Then there is quiet.

A sense of well-being fills me,

like the beach is filled with wreckage

and the detritus of everyday life.