Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Michael James Gossett

The Pensacola Beach Pier

Her father built the Pensacola Beach Pier up from Atlantic bedrock, the tremendous cattails of its scaffolding suspended in cerulean. He worked out there for years until the base emerged like the skeleton of a great wooden whale breaching the surface, extending like a tongue into an open mouth. His daughter and I would spend nights wishing off the end, twenty toes dangling as the last summer suns nestled in for the evening somewhere just below our shoulders. The ocean would sail in salty and smooth with the sound of the vesper bell, the two of us holding hands inside the dark pockets of her sweatshirt, watching the lights of a distant boat or airplane flicker like fireflies on a heavy playhouse curtain.