The hours between the Work.



I sit on the ocean beach boardwalk,

cross legged and periodically dangle my sandaled foot toward the cooling sand in the dusk of magic hour.

Absorbing the hardness of the cement under me, the sights through my filtered lenses, and the sound waves of my earphones.

I feel a sudden and physical urge to wrapped my blonde arms around my ribs and curl into a fetal tuck.. to sleep, to hold myself…

I resist, smile shyly at the street hippies covered in hope and nag champa dust

finish the last sips of my hazelnut coffee in a paper cup, uncross my stiff legs, and scrape my feet back to the waiting Subaru

2 thoughts on “The hours between the Work.

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