The ocean is an aristocrat:
There is only one beach,
One beachfront to own.
Anyone can live in the valley
Behind a chainlink fence,
And contemplate the cold
Mountain’s white breast,
Shot pink by morning light.
Sometimes there are birds.
The quest for the ordinary
Is the passion of middle age.
After two decades
Of relentless rocket ascent
And fervent self-creation,
We yearn to grow simple,
Happy, and not unique.
”All happy families…”
There are those so restless,
So lost and so full of need,
That they miss the turn; even
As their hair gets gray
They still overthink it
And seek their impossibles;
Which some shall find.
There is always an ocean,
An impossibly warm beach,
A Malibu mansion row.
Statistically, though,
The outcomes are not great.
The mountain peaks are fogged
In California cloud;
A couple of fat quail
Pick at the puddle-ice;
I worry that one of my trees
Is dying. Simplicity
Is the coldest of rewards,
But the last that can remain.
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