One hundred is a round number
round like the battered soccer ball
left on the beach
round like the champagne bail
like the bottom of the beer can
left as an eye in the driftwood root ball
like my concepts and constructions
but the crane is not round
nor is the flight of startled pigeons
this impending fall coolness on my rock
the crow ominously perched
nor my heart, nor this moment
I’ve written one hundred beach poems
(or will have in a minute)
it’s a number
it’s a poem
tomorrow, God willing, there will be another
Composed August 31, 2025