A Poem by Bob Bradshaw

A Man Whistling in the Semi-Dark

The surf beckons
with her muffled voice,
but the baby sea turtles move
toward a fog bank of hotel lights.

Forty years ago we stood
under a sky powdered with stars.
Today we commute
in a haze of headlights, and return home

to well-lit evenings, our souls
as washed out as the night sky.

I wander outside for a smoke.
The stars have vanished, like the nightingale.
Can I still mimic its whistle?

How did it go?


Bob Bradshaw is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. Recent work of Bob's can be found at Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica, Chantarelle's Notebook and Slow Trains.