A funeral, then the beach – 

tastes hot in my mouth,

clinging to top of my mouth,  

lingering unwanted

black heat into the void.

The sun insists on spitting 

spicy splinters of light,

splashing in my eyes, children 

playing on retinas, harmless

and infuriating – such indifference.

A hurricane, then back home –

feels wet on my face,

showering on a young shopping cart 

creeping to the bike rack

winding eyes wide in witness.

I dare not wade into

mischievous waters, churning

in the pit of my stomach,

longing for relax, last

to reach the calming land.

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. His work has appeared in Vita Brevis, Literary Yard, Olives Skins, and Whispers and Echoes, among others. He is also a barista at the online Go Dog Go Cafe, a place where…