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Shippan Point
by Ken HarnischTo be even thinking about it seems a sacrilege.
Near obsession
Nostalgia twisted like a snarled shoelace around my neck,
Cutting off my breath.
Killing me maybe
But I keep coming back to you.
Always something there to remind me
I’m singing along to that coming off Exit 9 on the turnpike. Damn if the sign isn’t still there. Four decades old, still saying this road is legally closed.
Ancient and rusty, yet bloody fresh and young as yesterday
We walked this road in the autumn afternoon to Shippan Point.
You knew the way like you still lived there. I walked beside you and let you lead me back into a memory I never shared.
You had told me of the lifeguard before
I even knew his name.
But I was the one holding your hand now, staring out to the Sound
Sun-chipped gold on a steely cobalt blue, the beach a gritty scimitar where polished stones and wet spinach weed lolled to and fro in the browning froth
Someone appeared, wearing a jacket zippered to his neck. Writing on it that I think said Fairfield County something or other
Phlegmy skin, and unfeatured face, aviator glasses the only thing that made him stand out.
“You can’t be here,” he said, and you smiled tightly. “That’s him,” you whispered, your lips quivering.
Looking to me for answers, and perhaps, salvation.
Later,
I found myself walking with you across the grass, wondering what makes a boy so unmemorable unforgettable.
We found your friends. Your former friends.
The conversation didn’t lag; it never was
Your broken words fell in stops and starts
While strangers’ eyes pierced my clothes to
See if it were true
That the skin under the shirts of New York City boys
Was made of scales and gills
We walked away to shrugs and half-hearted goodbyes
They may have seen your back shuddering, but only I saw your tears.
“Never let them see you cry,” I said. You took my hand
Without a word and held it for almost two more years.
You don’t remember this, I know.
So why can’t I join you in ignorant bliss?
What is it about a life
That is supposed to be fraught with meaning
That my most uncommon talent
Is to be a wistful sponge of memories.
Your sponge, to boot. 09/24/2008 Posted on 09/25/2008
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 09/25/08 at 03:24 PM ...ken, you don't need me to tell you this is sommmme story, laced with Gabriel Ricard's penish style, buuut still significantly yours...i love the gist of the story annnd especailly your line-breaks...keen, bubba. |
| Posted by Joe Cramer on 09/25/08 at 04:13 PM ... an excellent write!!! |
| Posted by Melissa Panther on 10/19/08 at 06:21 AM I love the journey, the meandering feel...so real, so lovely. |
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