Joshua Bocher

I.

When the glow of the sun
Reddens my arms
With its soft touch,
All the ocean seems
A seaweed soup
Tainted by the deaths
Of horseshoe crabs.

II.

Drinking wine with old friends,
Talking of times past and people
We used to know, or thought we knew,

As the light of the sun goes out
And the lights on the lawn go on
And flies eat what’s left of our cheese,

A raccoon sneaks up behind us,
But is spotted by my perceptive wife
And runs away from us, dumbfounded.

In the morning, we find our chairs
Mauled, disheveled, thrashed
By a raging something.

III.

This musician makes sounds
Out of music
Instead of making music
Out of sounds.

Meanwhile, the face
Of the man made of wood
Sleeps on the ground, broken.