Good For Sores, Moles...
The weight of the sun
sinks into my bones
like the weight of a senseous lover.
I hear (to my left)
the snake-like slither of
a canvas raft on sand --
the five-tubed toy of my
childhood one never sees
in this sleek high-tech
Boogie-board age.
At my feet,
the shrill scream of the seagull
is repeated "Ah! AH! AH!"
by the King of the Babies.
He stands and toddles to the water,
a drunken sailor in miniature.
Bold
And I find that I actually miss breathing in
the second-hand smoke.
And feeling the insistant kick a my chair,
alerting me to another salvo of comments
at the parade of passing people
that makes it impossible
to write a poem on the beach.
© 1996, Noël Lynne Figart