PICKUP
that pickup
that wondrous pickup
where a dark haired girl
and Jim gave me cocaine,
Oregon beer and a lift.
I had flown into Portland
and was hitchhiking to the coast;
I'd never seen the ocean.
It was blue
it was roiling white waves
on gray-tan beaches
it was right there.
Big window of the bar,
Jim's uncle's bar,
light fading fast.
I paid for whiskey.
We drank and I left to
run barefoot on the beach,
cold sand, cool water, stubbed
my toe. Laughing, bleeding.
Maybe they saw from the bar
I don't care
I taste salt
I am wet to my knees
I am hearing the ocean
in my brain
years later
a thousand miles inland
as snow falls on my
future grave.