Surf-Side: When Not at the Laundromat
It boomerangs like a slap:
the sticky summer heat,
the sandy grime
between my knees and the linoleum,
the swollen
mosquito bites that lined my arms
and legs.
And the cool,
cool
heaven
of the open refrigerator door,
that moment,
loading
Cokes from the 24-pack into the fridge,
nirvana fragilely obtained,
the way a jarred firefly last blinks
as its oxygen runs out.
I was what?
Just shy
of eight?
Still reeling
from the baby shark hidden in the shallow
waves that,
in its funeral rolling,
had blindly gored me
in the thigh;
still believing,
I ran
the garden hose along the bottom dunes
questing
for homemade quicksand
adventures;
still itching
every mosquito scratch;
just an embryo still really
when I watched
the college students run naked
from their campsite into the frothy waves,
the school of dolphins
that one sunset
jumping with a joy just out of reach.
Maybe,
with longer arms,
neverland continues,
eighth birthdays and unhappy knowledge
merely make-
believe.
