I am lately dust dry.

At this depth

I stride them slump.

I am a sandman

Wider than my width.

And I am witless

Since the storms of life hit.

I congratulate myself

For the winds I breathe

And the extent of bloom

I imagine I have achieved.

In truth,

There is a silly sense of pride

Pervading these beach years.

Though not quite deck chaired

I ponder more than give.

I aim my escape

At the wired window.

A tall teller of a low story?


I fit this Kit well,

And everyone who will listen

I tell.

Christopher Thompson c 2119