It is the last evening of summer
and I am at the end of a fishing pier
waiting for my cup of coffee from Colombia
to finally get its temperature right.
As tourists with farmer tans
and awful manners
parade in cars like a funeral out of town
heading west into the faint memory of the sun.
Which made me squint at my own reflection
spilling out along the boardwalk panels,
pointing like a compass to the focal point of the Atlantic,
forcing me to figure out the irony of it all.
Amongst the charade of waves
that fold and bend like a living room carpet,
I think about the dirt
swept beneath it:
Like the journeys we set sail on every day
in hopes for land
despite not being able to see
the waters we tread upon,
alarms of distress,
hearts lost between latitudes and longitudes,
innuendos in floating bottles
with misspelled currents and words.
And by now my beverage
has decided to turn
as the hour becomes foreign to me
like an adopted parent.
So before I pour my drink
over the ledge into the swells below
that erase footprints in the sand
like memories left in a structure fire.
I notice it:
a broken anchor,
split between its shank,
tumbling like a fan blade against the shards of sand.
There is something about this
that speaks to me,
not because I see the same symbol
as a figurehead on commercial fishing boats,
or as every exhausted cliche
found in tattoo parlors,
and shot glasses,
and on overpriced T-shirts.
it is something more,
something beating with a pulse,
That reminds me to continue carrying
my jagged ends and edges.
To keep moving
and mending towards the solace of shore.
the everyday moorings and drags.
To stay afloat inside.
Cord Moreski is a writer from New Jersey. His work has been previously featured in Decades Review, From the Depths by Haunted Waters Press, Yellow Chair Review, On Fire, and Venture Magazine. Moreski currently teaches middle school reading and language arts.