On the dock

Poetry and prose

Am I as old as I think?

Obviously.

Time moves onwards and I stay stagnant.

Yesterday I was ten and on the dock,

I waited and waited and waited

before throwing myself over

into the Atlantic.

I floated endlessly,

Twenty-one years pass by;

And here I am, still standing on the dock.

Waking up, the both of us still half-wrapped in the insanity and eternity of slumber, mine spent on the Francis Patton dock, we mumble about nothing at each other.

“Tumultuous docks,” I say.

She responds, “tumultuous ducks.”

We embrace and fall back asleep, giggling. A year passes quickly when you’re asleep.