The Culprit.

You were their along the boardwalk

Talking to yourself in rhythms

(Unfamiliar to me

At the time).

 

You turned the dial

Of the radio until you

Came across something you liked;

Ice tea upon the iron cast table.

 

I waited up all night,

In the hopes you’d come

Looking for me

But you never did.

 

I heard the cast of the birds in their cage,

The sort of thing that never fully goes away.

Hides in the closet upstairs

Next to the Halloween costumes, sure

But it never truly leaves the house.

Just then, the scorpion pops the beach ball.

Nobody was looking.

Inside of the beach ball,

A shard of broken mirror

Filled with the water of an above ground swimming pool,

Reflecting shimmering, dancing light

There in the corner of the room.

 

Nudity buried in the static,

Grey and green and black and red and blue.