I remember a tiny shovel
I mean hand
digging at the beach.
Is every poem
the reach
for that red toboggan
that snow dappled childhood
that in this case
was partially sand?
I do not need to
own a newspaper
to exhibit my meaning.
My citizenship cane,
though,
wobbles lately.
All those expectations
pledged in mutual assurance
an umbrella policy
paid for with the stasis
of a couple small hands
hovering over many
scholarly demands.
A Bildungsroman, then.
That's what this pen scratches
as it tears more paper
seeking the salty water
that always appeared
when I dug six to twelve inches
down.
Roman Ryan 