Clamming
Published in
1 min readApr 8, 2023
a poem
The briny shore when the tide is low
like terrain from another world
gulls pick at the salty clam bed
children step on the fish that are dead.
Parents utter futile calls
to bring the little ones back to the car
they’ll eat in the kitchen with the TV on the wall
numbing themselves for a week at their job.