A Dead Day

A dead day
Slept away, empty
Standing on the Hermosa Strand
wind-blown, chilly, where the youngest
ones surely stood in their formative years,
the moist air no longer mine, Strand runners
oblivious of the tourist stranger knowing we can’t
go home again

Coming back
behind a late model
Accord thinking of Mia’s
struggle to get back to her old
world, knowing I am doing little to
assist; not even driving the loved Vanagan,
having sought solace with an outing lifts my spirits
A dead day

Blood sugar
might be to blame
The readings are consistently
uncomfortable; Patrices’ dismay is
sinking in like a small craft warning with
no port in sight added to my missing imagination
Glum emptiness - like the lack of answers for Iraq
A dead day

The white cat
surveys Amapola Ave
from atop the printer after
sniffing my diet Pepsi and turning
away as I have from the day; nothing is
wrong, I tell myself; the wife is sweet; the house
is neat; San Francisco beckons, still I am shrunk  
Come night