At the Beach
The postcard he would never send
found its way into the child’s sand pail
after he had carefully selected it
from a rack in the souvenir shop
cautiously carrying it tucked inside
the folds of his red, white and
blue striped towel to the seaside.
Then he penned the words:
Wish you were here…
on its field of white,
scratching a black “x”
where her body might lie
alongside his body
in the perfectly coiffed sand—
in the picturesque seascape
on the face of the charming,
little card...when a hot wind,
filled with love’s urgency, came
over the water ( it would not wait)
and up onto the beach
as if to herald his message to her.
The postcard lifted up like a kite
swirled past a sour, snoring
centenarian, beyond a father
and son— oyster rakes in hand
despite the spelling of the month--
then alighted in the lovely lap
of a small ginger-haired girl who
looked curiously up after squinting
hard at the card and at its letters...
sounding out the “www” and “ssshhh”.
She pressed the invitation to her lips
and would forever search for its sender.
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