Watching Toms River

May 10, 1980

The world changes with daylight.

A warm breeze blows across the splinted brown surface of the dock. Sunlight glistens on the water like bright new stars, distorted in the ripples that lick the posts holding up my world.

Sail boats glide buy competing with the power hungry maniacs who claim ownership of the river with their polluting machines.

They foul the air and the water, covering the sounds of nature with their rude boast, mean people who violate the world in pretense that they own it.

A military jet rumbles across the sky on its way to McGuire Air Force Base, a reminder of just how savage the world really is, its shadow bringing fear over everything it touches like a black shroud.

I haven’t read a newspaper in two days, seeking to get out from under the doom and gloom of Wall Street, weather reports and threats from the Soviet Union.

I’m running away, stepping out from reality for a while.

I watch the sale boats and the decks filled with people wearing read and blue. They stand out against the line of green on the far side of the mouth of this river.

I ached to be on their side, standing on deck, staring back at me.

Watching them, I’m curious to see what I look like, a wide-eyed observer too innocent to deal with this troubled world (or pretending I’m innocent anyway).

More boats sail by, the sun sparkles on their ornamentation, stinging my eyes.

The seagulls cry, aching for the sea beyond the river, beyond the bay.

A pigeon hobbles across the planks of the dock near me, pecking at bits of cracked corn tourists toss here, the win teasing them by easing each kernel out of reach as they peck.

I feel my world teasing me in the same way.

I stare up at the sky, looking for clues to start I saw here light night, but now I only see blue.

The sun dances on the tips of the waves near by feet.

And I remain – ever watching for something, but haven’t as clue as to what.