By Karen Kenyon
You are rolled up in your blanket now,
perhaps 40 feet feet from my car
olive brown, army-colored,
here by the peaceful Pacific
Paler near us, darker
near the horizon.
It’s almost time for the green flash,
but you don’t care.
A few minutes ago you motioned to pelicans —
directing them with — a pipe? “Attack! Attack!”
And to a lone seagull, you wave and direct again — “Attack! This way!”
As they all gracefully fly by,
pay you no mind,
I look away when I see you take out a long cigarette-shape,
hold it, roll it in your hand.
I don’t want you to see me watching.
But mostly no one is watching you
or paying attention,
In this strange freedom you have now won.
Karen Kenyon has been published in The Los Angeles Times, The San Diego Union-Tribune, British Heritage, Westways, and The Christian Science Monitor. She also has two books Sunshower (Putnam, NY) and The Bronte Family (Lerner Publications, Minnesota) She teaches at MiraCosta College and UCSD-X.
Photo credit: Rich Kacmar