I Tried To Hold The Ocean In My Hand

I tried to hold the ocean in my hand,

but the water ran out between my fingers.

The taste of sour- grass is imbedded in my memory.

Carboard skids led to mercurochrome-stained knees.

I grabbed at the ocean as I swam.

Roofing tar set my brain a tingle.

We emptied cereal boxes hunting for treasures.

Watched the sunset yield to fog as thick as sourdough starter.

The ocean can’t stop its current.

Crashing waves. Polishing glass shards.

Collectors fodder- empty dollars.

A Mermaid’s purse with long handles

carries seawater from distant shores.

I would find a way to hold that ocean,

suck all the sour from the grasses.

I’d sit for days in the salty dust of a sand dune.

Take off my own training wheels,

and throw the little green soldiers over the hill.

I would trap it in a crab pot,

climb the highest tree and await your rescue.

I’d hop on the bumper of the streetcar,

swing from it precariously,

and learn to ride that skateboard.

That ocean that runs through my fingers,

like you my brother, can’t be contained.

Popcorn bricks, rooftop carnival rides.

Memories, like fogbanks, they linger.

There’s the horn! Always calling us home.

When I forgive life for its misdeed,

because nothing’s ever as we planned.

That will be the day I succeed, and hold the ocean in my hand.