of a giant piece of old industrial
driftwood a beer
between his knees
please recycle, it says,
though it will be crushed
and tossed into the plastic
trashcan.
ben with his white fang teeth
flashing in the sun,
john on the sidelines
with an absurdly oversized camera
around his neck,
beer cans and a banjo,
books and sunglasses.
i pick up pieces of seaglass
and lay them on the weathered boards.
long shadows
stretch back toward the woods
where we pee
standing
or crouched in the crushed pine needles
steaming warm earth rising
up toward the branches,
the ferry in the distance,
shawn and cat walking north
in the april sunshine--
we feel we're such good friends
through we've been so for two weeks, only,
and on this holiday, on the rocky beach,
after brunch and a plastic egg hunt and ham and
sweet cinnamon rolls
we feel like long lost relatives.
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