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Mimi Moriarty



On the Beach, Two Empty Chairs 


They imply the living

those who built them

purchased them, endured

in them 90 degree heat.


The shapeless elders

with comb-overs and baggy

shorts, billowing skirts

to hide thick ankles.


The children placed there

for de-sanding and drying,

droplets of lake water

glistening on the flat boards.


The readers and nappers,

those without sunscreen,

unwinding, succumbing

to gravity with a thud.


I have been all of those and more,

a renter, a tongue-wagger,

a lunch carrier, a sun worshipper

with an upturned gaze.


I regret not one summer

of lazing about

under looming clouds

and swarming flies.


And when empty

these two chairs

like married folk

could be interpreted as


deserted or broken,

badly constructed,

too hot to bear, or a

glimpse into an unknown season.




A. C. Grayling

Matt Hanson

Ferris Jabr

David Toomey

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