Three Hundred Feet Up (or “Notes From Another Man’s Head”)
From three hundred feet above I see me
treading along the shoreline. It’s inspiring,
the gull’s view from here.
The Gulf of Mexico stretches outward,
morning sky joining it in a perfect curve,
far beyond the limited vision of the man below.
But from here there’s no texture
of sand under foot or cool of breaking water,
and I have a vague longing for the physical again.
I move lower – thoughts entering –
Like how, when I order
Or how my brother-in-law has a stupid way
of arguing by using the word “nevertheless”
when he’s out of ammunition.
He’ll just look at you, after you’ve delivered
the perfect counter to some stupid thing
he’s trying to claim, and say, “Nevertheless.”
Which is only slightly less stupid
than when he closes an argument with,
“I’m just saying.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
And a wave breaks cold over my feet, kissing
me gently back down, and I am left dazed
by the fact that I never – ever – go to Starbucks,
don’t really know for sure what a “frappuccino” is,
and don’t even have a brother-in-law.
Then I remember I’m not really at the shore.