Destination by Gary Glauber
You smell ocean salt
through open car windows.
You exit long before
envied places for the rich.
In dreams, you destroy
their serenity with pumping bass lines
that shake their sanity
from a tall wall of black speakers.
Your choice of humble dock
is not much to look at, but still you do,
late in the day, searching your soul
amongst precarious piles of used books.
The local tales hold no interest;
you seek something to bruise your soul:
a radical philosophy to change
all you have known in life to this point.
You sleep like a peaceful child,
awaken forgetful of problems.
August holds you in its maw,
hot, restless, eager for why.
Tourist traps and dives
break up long sunny days.
When you finally remember
how to breathe in a way
not triggered by anxious anticipation,
it is time to go home