Then you soaked me
with the wind and rain of your explosive laughter.
Not fair, I said, no way!
I’m not camping out in this!
It never rains here like this in June,
says the guy at the Castaway Motel.
There’s been an exodus from the campgrounds.
One more room left. Queen, no view.
You can’t park nearby because the lot’s flooded.
More rain forcast as far as the weather apps can see.
Now that you’ve dragged me from my tent,
where will I sleep tomorrow night and the next?
Where will I find you?
This small coast port town was
once prosperous shipping lumber
until the forests gave out.
I do my morning hike along the anonymous highway
past deserted, boarded up shops
haunted with shadows of
clothing, food, books and antiques from long ago.
The waitress at the Paradise Cafe
smiles thinly as she slides me my
eggs with toast and hash browns
while rushing toward the loud family with noisey kids that just barged in.
Later I leave her a large tip, smile, wave to the kids,
and wander over to the wild, wet coast.
There’s nothing more to do but
pay attention to what’s happening
around me and inside me.
Maybe I can receive it all without judgement or desire.
Maybe I can receive it all with wonder.
Maybe I can meet you here.
Is this what you wanted the whole time?