Aquamarine
The boardwalk transforms
every couple blocks.
The wood runs seaward,
shifts toward north
or goes missing
behind caution tape.
I prefer it to the street;
a one mile walk past
the wet and empty funhouse,
blocky old folk’s homes
and thin chickens
in barren gardens.
Once I pass the ball field
I enter a teflon town
deemed more resilient
to market
crashes and
hurricanes.
It requires stamina,
all of me to reach you;
with your sharp wit and
your middle finger and
your clutter and
your fear.
You are aquamarine
sea glass in cigarette sand,
dirty and disguised,
still jagged
and unready
to be collected.
Object
Body of Water
About the Artist
Ian Johnson lives in Brooklyn. His poetry is often inspired by his work and travels as a therapist for homebound seniors in the New York metropolitan area.