My little boat and I,
tossed like a juggler’s
eggs, then into the sea,
and as I stagger onto
the beach I see her,
June, my next door
neighbor who is 95
years old, but somehow
now looks 25, reclining
under the blackest night
sky, as she says, You
survived, the last three
folks went under—and
if you’re going to speak
keep it under 100 syllables,
past that it’s just babbling—
so I sit next to her,
she holds my hand,
my mind goes quiet,
and I can’t think of
anything worth saying.