Of Sand and Scotch

I often sleep in tall sandcastles
until the waves roll in
and wash me away out to sea,
I stand in the sand
and let the surf take me
back with the tide,
the foam filling my lungs,
the salt burning my eyes,
and from inside the undertow
I can see the stars.

Back on the beach
the grain walls topple,
flooded and pushed down,
an old bottle of scotch
slides through an open door
and right into my hand,
it wants me to drink
and I don't contend,
the scotch burns my throat,
the glass swallows me,
and from inside the bottle
I can see the stars.

As I swim back through the brine
making my way for the shoreline,
a shooting star drops from place
and passes my tower,
so I give the bottle my note:
"When the stars fall from grace,
I will be right here waiting."
scribbled in green
and tossed back to sea,
and back inside the new sandcastle
built by the children
I can see the stars.

On my throne of sand and sea,
with patience and soft heart,
drunk on the drink, and looking up,
I watch the night sky
and I wait and wait.