Here's another Bop. I'm coming to really dig this form for certain purposes. This poem isn't as good as I envisioned it conceptually, but there's still time.
waves rise like goosebumps,
fall soft as footsteps on damp sand.
The brown skin of the beach glistens
with the lines sung by
the surf's rolling tongue.
I imagine you curling your hair
or changing the Band-Aid on your finger.
Choosing between black heeled boots
or suede, wool lined slippers.
An expression descends your face
swift as Vietnamese swallows winging
through a name, startling as
the backwards knees of a Flamingo.
Tonight, you might follow
a string of numbers to this table.
Then wrinkle your nose above a smile
that curves like a bowling ball
down a shiny lane, before striking
all ten of my heart's wobbly pins.
