Degrees of Gray in West Seattle

Photo by Mykyta Martynenko on Unsplash

Say June went gray after that one perfect week. Say
you missed the game-clinch

catch or married the wrong man—the details don’t
matter. So here you are

at the sparse city beach at noon on a Tuesday, alone
with the fallen volleyball nets

and the week-old trash and the dull windows of
ferries passing, the one-foot

pigeons. Two kids are playing ball. One yells, Accuracy!
Accuracy! while the other,

smaller, runs around not catching it. You would have
been him, the little one. You

are him now, your depth perception shot, a cinder in
your eye, but all the time.

The small kid rolls and trips like the raccoon pups
that tumbled from under

the porch last night when you snuck out for a smoke,
the mom raccoon sat

grooming with her eerie little hands. She knew you
weren’t a threat, the closest

you get, you guess, to grace. It made you want to cinch
the mouth of the wind sock

carp and put your mouth to its mouth, let the air
rush in. The problem is you

can’t fish, can’t cut bait. The problem is you can’t
know if a chance is your last till

it’s passed. Go long! the first kid yells, and the little
one backs toward the freezing

Sound. Nears the water, keeps walking. Go long. Still
moving, his feet are in the foam

now, and a trick of light or else your ruined vision
makes it look like he’s not

stopping, so long, long gone, but no. The problem’s
with your eyes. He’s standing

there looking at you grinning, like, I’m onto you, buddy,
like, This is far enough.