5.7

These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade

and are rotting under the grasp of moss

menacingly mirthful in mess they've made

care not for his troubles nor for your loss.

Instead they goad him into glaucous grips

willing him to be consumed by the scud

until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,

tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.

Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;

a lifetime condensed into a fraction

and as the philosopher of Algiers

he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.

But in that time he could not change his way

to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.