The Lodger
Billy Collins
from his book The Trouble with Poetry
After I have beaten my sword into a ploughshare,
I beat my ploughshare into a hoe,
then I beat the hoe into a fork,
which I used to eat my dinner alone.
And when I had finished dinner,
I beat my fork into a toothpick,
which I twirled on my lips
then flicked over a low stone wall
as I walked along the city river
under the clouds and stars,
quite happy but for the thought
that I should have beaten that toothpick into a shilling
so I could a buy a newspaper to read
after climbing the stairs to my room.
~
Jetty
Lauren Young
We tiptoe from rock to rock
on the 1st Street jetty
in the darkness, lights
glowing from the boardwalk.
Our feet flex to grip the slickest boulders,
arms out like gull wings.
Our skirts ruffle in the briny
breeze.
The air is sticky,
sea spray misting my glasses,
flip-flops forked in the V
of my fingers.
The soft roar of the waves
beckons us out past the sandbar
to the very tip.
A gaggle of girls,
giggling until we spot the sign
prohibiting climbing onto the jetty,
we scurry
back to shore.
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