“Edge of Summer”

Everything gets pushed to the edge of Summer.
That’s how it is in Seattle.
If you haven’t gotten your average 58 days of sunshine yet,
don’t worry.
Not yet.
It is still coming—
it will be here waiting,
tilting like a windswept bonsai, roots planted firm,
in the cliff edge shores of Summer.
All of these things you’ve been waiting for to happen—
since coming to Seattle;
They all get pushed out to the cliff,
sometimes over the edge—
to get beaten by the water, not on rocks,
but on smooth passive aggressive stone.
That’s how it is in Seattle.
There are no rocks. No rocks anywhere.
Only stones.
There are no storms.
Only drizzle.
And the people living in it are no different.
Like people anywhere, they have their anger, tension, stress, fears, divorce, incest, rape, murder—
but none of it finds release with any sharpness or terror.
Their faces never tense up like they do in other places.
There are no storms.
Only drizzle.
There is no apocalyptic darkening of the skies at high noon like there is in Chicago—
only gray and fog. That’s how it is in Seattle—
and it all gets pushed out to the edge of Summer here.
This is where I’m being pushed.
To the edge.
Over the edge.
Someday, if you ever come out to visit,
you’ll probably find me—
or my body—
or my body of work—
smoother than any ocean polished stone,
getting my dues at the dead-end turnaround on Utah Avenue,
laying there in wait, not speaking one word, at the distant edge of Summer.

narrative poem written on 07-28-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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