I walk these streets of familiarity-
in a shore mile town that I call home,
which resides along the craggy seaboard
where it married the vast Atlantic before I was born.
How these footsteps have inched
with spent time and scraped knees;
my feet stroll over pavement,
tattered with punctured arrow hearts and initials
that were chiseled in wet cement of you long ago.
I venture off of Benson onto Main,
where crooked corner signs introduce themselves after every block,
leading me to Victorian dwellings and dime stores
that stand climate like painted grave stones in sandy soil,
where under this denim bleached sky,
the lining of that sea salt horizon
leads me to your lover.
There the hour begins to grow its five o' clock shadow,
while I hear in the distance brother Asbury
keeping you company with lullabies of Cookman and Ocean Avenue
as the weathered statue of Stokes watches the day fall asleep once again.
And when I finally reach the pine splintered boards left by Sandy,
the air caresses my lungs
while Atlantis’s “Great Pond”
welcomes my arrival.
There, the stars- an infinite quantum of fiery eyes above-
peer below at my every motion,
while the shifting of the tides sing sweet solitude
where its curious currents pull me closer to you.
my excursions begin where they end.
Towards diverse destinations and curiosities,
I always seem to discover sand in these shoes wherever I roam.
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Comments about this poem (Ocean Grove by Cord Moreski )
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