A Day At the Beach
Are we having fun yet?
I think I’m doing everything right.
The three-hour drive only took four hours.
My postage stamp of beach is
staked out and blanketed.
Soda and Kool-Aid float in
tepid water in the cooler.
Beach towels, bathing suits, balls,
umbrellas, goggles, fins, chips,
hats, sun block, sand toys, lawn chairs,
and Solarcaine are near at hand.
I know, you see, because I carried them
across every damn inch of a quarter mile
of burning sand while the kids chased
seagulls and picked Cheetos off the
ground.
Are we having fun yet?
Sand has invaded personal spaces
even my gynecologist hasn’t seen.
My hair has twisted itself into Rasta locks,
saltwater style, and I can actually
see the freckles exploding like popcorn.
I lie down. I open a book. I am promptly surrounded.
“Mommy, it’s hot. We want to go home.”
Are we having fun yet?
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