Sea World
       

I am counting down the days
on my abacus of bone. I write home
with my finest India ink.

At dawn the damaged will be laid
out in rows and warmed by a light
until their strength returns,

at least enough to wave. Little girl,
this one's for you. Always has
been, always will be. I'm Babe Ruth

pointing toward a distant, sun-hued
orb. And just like that the shadows
return to their lair. And applause.

It moves me until I think that I might
speak. Then the tragic schema
of the common beach ball begins again.

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Copyright © 2021 Bridget Lowe All rights reserved
from My Second Work
Carnegie Mellon University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission