A Revision of 'A Conversation on the Edge of a Pier'
or, 'At Those Docks'
it was late
not too late
just late for us
because he had a curfew
and all the time in the world
wouldn’t be enough.
so it was late
maybe 10 pm
and the sky was clear
but it hadn’t been clear all day
so it was hot
and muggy
and sweaty,
and i had asked him why he was still
wearing his tie dye sweatshirt.
so it was late
and a little too warm,
and like i could feel the water in the air,
on my skin,
i could feel
the fifth of captain morgan
sitting heavy in my stomach.
it had burned going down,
and even though i had made sure not
to drink too much,
i still felt intoxicated.
and not to sound cliche,
but part of it
might have been from being
around him.
so it was late for us
and too hot for me
and we were both under the influence
of cheap rum
and good vibes
and feelings of uncertainty
but of all the right things.
and there was music
played by a group of teenagers.
their words and guitars filled the atmosphere
with that feeling
that not even a poet
has the grace to describe,
but i’ll try anyway.
it’s that feeling that movies make
seem normal
but are actually rare
and sweet
and deserving of remembrance,
like the perfect first kiss in a boat on a lake,
or a formal dance just for two
under a gazebo (we sat under one that night),
with string lights
and a boy who knows how to waltz.
our string lights
were the stars
in an unexpectedly clear sky
and our waltz
was stumbling walks to the bathroom
and our lake with a boat
was the quiet ocean
with the occasional jumping fish.
so it was late
and hot
i hate hot weather
and we were drunk
and there was music
just for us
and there was a dock
it was kind of long
and the wood was soft
worn from all of the feet
that had walked on it before.
maybe a family carrying fishing poles and buckets of live bait
or maybe a guy with a beer and a foldable chair
or maybe even people like us-
a boy and a girl,
swaying with their hands entwined.
so. it was late.
and the weather could have been cooler
and the rum was filling our blood
and our thoughts
and the teenagers continued to play songs
we didn’t know
and we sat on the dock
and didn’t really speak
or move.
we just sat
and tried not to fall asleep
with my head on his shoulder-
his sweatshirt smelled like him, maybe light cologne and close quarters-
and his head almost resting on mine
and his hand
that knew how to use a gun
and button a uniform
and protect and defend
was on my knee.
it was big
and warm,
but not as warm as the weather,
and my hand had found its way to his
somehow
(i’m pretty sure it was my rum filled brain)
and we sat there
hands on my knee
folded together
with our heads resting on me and him
and below us
was the ocean
our lake with a boat and two people in love
black
and rolling
and quiet
and watching us
watch it
and not to sound cliche
but it really felt like
there was just me
and him
and our string light stars
and the music just for us
and the humid weather
and the empty bottle of captain in the trash
and those fish in the water
running out of time
we didn’t have.
About the Creator
Meagan Zimmer
I'm writing a poetry book with one of my best friends, Molly Bosshart, titled, "This is a Hate Post"
conventional grammar and capitalization and i are at odds
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