2001/runslong

Time runs long
at the mouth
of the river,
the beach where
it meets the sea.
A grandfather in
a folding metal
chair surveys
the shore birds.

River and ocean
back to back,
you can choose
your view.
Tourists face the
ocean.
The grandfather looks
to the river,
while his grandsons stack
a dangerous triangle
of driftwood.

A mother pounds
a plastic shovel
against a failing
sand toy, the noise
makes me want to
hit her.

I like to sit
where I can turn
my head,
from river
to ocean
and back again,
tracking the brief
migrations.
But the sculpture
we last leaned on
has collapsed
into the sand.
The log we choose
demands a choice,
if we are to sit
together.
It is the sort
of thing
that makes marriage
difficult.

1/3/01