The green shell of his backpack make him lean
into wave after wave of responsibility,
and he swings his stiff arms and cupped hands,

pulling ahead. He has extended his neck
to its full length, and his chin, hard as a beak,
breaks the cold surf. He’s got his baseball cap on

backward as up he crawls, out of the froth
of a hangover and onto the sand of the future,
and lumbers, heavy with hope, into the library.