Seashells in Your Pockets
Sounds of the Ocean
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I put a seashell to my ear and it all comes back

The ocean waves were falling in on themselves against the shore.  Racing – rushing into pathways – swirling inside dug outs –  the water was frothy, gritty, and brown.  The sound, rice krispy, beneath the sand as the water receded.  The rhythm oscillated back and forth against the porcelain of the shell.  There behind it, the brass blew a nasty hook, looping and building, but never letting him go.  He leaned into the notes; leaned into the hypnosis.  The bars flooded over him, pouring images of the Hypnotic, Exotic, Brown, of her, into any available opening – eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.

It was a day exactly like today.  He topped the hill, shifting gears before a grand march of street lights lining the blacktop like paparazzi.  Catching the light, the starburst traced a path from the front of the bike to the back.   Waiting at the top of the hill, with wheels turned outward, a patrol car perched on its haunches. Shit! Kick it down.  He told himself as he hurried to drop his speed, ever keeping watch on the patrol car from the corners of his eyes.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, he turned and spotted her.  She was turning through the intersection. The top of the car was dropped. The wind caught her hair, holding it.  It’s fingers running through it, while she sang. Brown eyes. Dark brown hair.  He thought to himself, There’s something to be said for a woman singing love songs with the drop-top down.  Smiling like Springtime, not caring if anyone else is around.  Sultry and sexy, she commanded the machine with authority as it disappeared into a parking garage.

Oh well, another time, another place.

by malakhai jones
(c) Copyright 2016

seashell img src: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/7c/38/25/7c38256fe6af182ef04e5492e3560f09.jpg