Josh Bernstein 2

The streets of my neighborhood need paving. I don’t know who to call. My bicycle has two flat tires. My words travel in smoke. Every time I cough the census arrives at my door. My neighborhood is seven miles long and I am too easily found. We are surrounded by ocean and some of us are afraid to float. I never stare at the sun. That is where God sits. The ocean murmurs sentences we should hear. Our ears only receive static and the scores to yesterday’s baseball games. The waves eat the shore. I love you but will not say it aloud.