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Marginal Stephen Gardner
He’s edged the lawn and now it’s time for tea. Down in the wicker chair, what does he see? Easy waves, cirrus, a gull or two. Over the fence, he eyes the chaise where the neighbor’s wife dreams afternoons under the sun. Evening nears, and he lights the fire for dinner, tosses meat onto the grid and leans into the smell of burning fat. Next door, the bedroom light goes on and he hears the sound of water. He stares at the incoming tide. For six months now he has heard some quiet voice in his ear, like a soft and familiar tongue, telling of places he can go for nothing. The light goes out. A wave crashes, and then another. Under the eaves, a gull cries in its sleep. A wave crashes. He closes the grill and takes his drink inside. He knows the gull tucks its head under its wing. |
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