Almost Blue

Almost Blue

My car finds it way down to the parking lot
at Bradford Beach. I turn off the engine
and stare out at Lake Michigan as waves break
hard over square white rocks, the spray
landing on my windshield. The local college
station plays the full 7 minutes of Chet Baker
doing a cover version of Elvis Costello,
his trumpet moaning like a dying animal.
I sit and I listen. What else should I do?
I can’t get out of my car and slowly spin you
around the parking lot like I did once before.
I won’t walk down the empty beach anymore
and build ad-hoc sculptures from driftwood,
prehistoric-looking skeletons left to surprise
the morning joggers and dog walkers. Seems
pointless now. So I sit back and I listen, his horn
just killing it, as dark waves break over me
like liquefied sadness splashing onto the glass,
and I’m almost blue, almost there in that deep
place where the music is all that remains,
and the wiper blades clear you away, almost.

Paul Scot August

(Originally Published in Connotation Press: An Online Artifact – Issue V, Vol III, January 2012)


One Response to “Almost Blue”

  1. Love this poem, Paul.

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