Last Wave (Poem)

Last Wave

The flame burns, even
as our sea stars are dying.

November bears too much
change, summer having slipped

into an autumn freeze. Some
of us can't forget how it plays,

that day, the sequence of shots
as the limo rounds the corner

and his hands go up but not
like in that last wave he gave us.

© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas