A Few Miles South

You are there

On the cusp of the beanbag,

The protected island but

Near the edge of the storm.

Close enough to

Hear the wind scream

Through the window screens

Close enough to

Hear the wind suck

At the shingles.

And after,

You find pieces of

Someone else’s life

Lodged in the mud

Of your backyard.

You are perched on the edge.

And you face forward,

You look over the cusp.

You close your eyes,

And thank Whoever

That you were on the beanbag.

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