beach street

decades passed, &
a castle once blue
faded to skeleton grey:
bits of bone chipped and
floated away in snowflakes,
covering us with lead paint.
today, corpse wood still sags
from a bulging ceiling well
we put kitchen pans under,
depending on phone forecasts:
them dripping droppings
never stopped and
neither did that mold.
even so, let me catch
my own dog days with a
hippocampus bucket, & i’ll
keep them till I’m drained,
on some sunny morn foretold.
i miss my old buddy.
used to see him on the couch
but now we only text
ever since the move in may.
want to tell him all about
my new favorite bands, yet
i know he’s already heard
those midwest emo songs
from that s. oregon bedroom,
and so have his rafters, the
plaster, torn linoleum, and
arrhythmic washer/dryer.
my current mattress,
skin, face, and lungs
are the same i had then.
but here at this address
i need not dodge
ants, splinters, or anything
except for city noise.
still, it would be nice
to spend another night there,
the charming punk home
with the lovely rat hazards.
sincerely: pining for then.

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Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He is currently working as an editor in Portland, and enjoys music, museums, movie theaters, and rain. His poems have been accepted by Platform Review, Mortal Mag, and Barzakh, among others.