BEACH WALK
My feet are paddles
with baby toes curled
like shrimps—
or prawns breaded and waiting to be fried,
resting on their sides
while the second toes hide
under imposing brothers,
the foot thumbs,
tough leviathans that steady the soles
and guide the legs
as they dig into the sand
and thrust me forward,
making the deepest impression
on the beach
always pointing slightly outward
as if no one would notice
that each foot wants to go its own way
and they're not ready to be part of a team.
REMNANTS
What’s left over
after the stories
are spoken,
pens are clicked,
computers turn their
blue faces to the wall
and sigh?
From the back of the throat
a hollow, arch,
as big as an elevator shaft,
swallows the remains of the week:
spare seconds,
driblets of rain, which
won’t fill a ramekin,
embers, but
not enough sparks to light a candle,
whispers,
and a few brushstrokes of color,
but nothing too bright.
© Three Poems, Sandra Green
©Microsoft Clip Art/Photography
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